


Music - Sides 1 and 2

by starshine24mc



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-04-15
Updated: 2001-04-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:17:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 47,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starshine24mc/pseuds/starshine24mc
Summary: Some things are better left unsaid...





	Music - Sides 1 and 2

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Title: Strange Disease  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: Sk/M  
Spoilers: None  
Rating: NC-17  
Beta: none  
Disclaimer: Boring but necessary disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised  
Feedback: Yes, PLEASE!   
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Summary: Some things are better left unsaid...

* * *

"Why did you have to put so much pressure on me?  
You push my heart away.  
I didn't mean to scare you, little one.  
Is there nothing I can say?  
Don't leave me with nothing;  
Yeah, you left me with nothing..."  
          - Prozzak,  
          "Strange Disease"

I can't sleep.

This is definitely nothing new-a night where I woke up screaming from nightmares only once or twice used to be considered a good night. But lately, for the last month or so, well, 23 nights to be exact, I've slept like a baby. Or like a baby would sleep if it didn't wake up every hour squalling to be fed. What do I know about babies anyway?

All I know is that I've been sleeping nightmare-free ever since he's been here. Keeping the monsters at bay with a surly growl and arms strong enough to hold me and all my neurosis.  
Those arms are around me now, holding me close, my back pressed to his chest, legs entwined; spoons snug in a drawer, and he knows I love it. His presence is all I need to feel safe, to sleep.

I can't sleep.

Why'd you do it, Walter? Why did you say it? Wasn't it enough to have a night together, enjoying a late take-out dinner (Thai-your favourite), an old movie on cable (sci-fi, my favourite), some serious fooling around on the couch, and hours of mind-blowing sex?

Nothing sends me off to sleep like sex. If I could bottle the orgasms you give me, in my head, not just my body, I could put Sominex out of business!

Sometimes I fall asleep before you pull out, utterly sated and feeling like nothing bad could happen as long as you are here, with me and in me.

I can't sleep.

Curling up in your arms tonight, I thought, not for the first time, that life really gets no better than this. I knew I would sleep all night, still feeling you in me, still tasting you on my lips. I felt your hand in my hair, stroking and petting, then your mouth on my ear, breath warm and tickling. I felt myself drifting off...

"I love you, Fox."

And now I can't sleep.

 

Y'know, for a first time piece, this ain't half bad. For more of Mulder's early morning meanderings, check out the sequel, "Every Morning"!

Copyright 2000 Michele. All rights reserved. I went to law school.

 

* * *

 

Title: The Swing  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: Sk/M  
Spoilers: Anything with Yappi in it.  
Rating: NC-17  
Beta: None  
Disclaimer: Boring but necessary disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised  
Feedback: Yes, PLEASE!   
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Summary: Walter and Fox's mood music, side one, track 2. Just a quick note of thanks to Diana, Ruthless, Lyric Soul and Geri for their kind words. I am pleased to announce that this story placed second in the 2000 Wirerims Awards in the category of best short story!  
Wirerims Awards Nominee - Second Place Winner!

* * *

"Now that old swing still hangs from the tree  
Out back of the house that love built."  
-James Bonamy,  
"The Swing."

It's as if he's psychic; as if he can read my mind.

I was just about to get up from the porch swing and refresh my cold coffee, and maybe grab the comforter off the couch, too; the warm afternoon was slipping into chilly night; when he appeared at the door, steaming cups in his hands, comforter folded over one shoulder.

Without a word, he handed the larger of the two mugs to me, the red ceramic one with the raised pewter 'W' on the side, then, mindful of his own cup, sat carefully next to me on the swing and shook out the comforter.

I helped to spread the quilted down over his hips and my own, then blew on my coffee, thinking I should go find the Drambuie, to completely take the chill off-

I smelled the heady mixture of scotch, spices and honey before I tasted it as I brought the cup to my lips. A sharp look at him only earned me a Scully-patented raised eyebrow, then a slow lazy smile.

Mindreader, I thought, shifting slightly to set my mug on the oversized wooden spool that served as a table next to the swing, where it joined my first cup, my glasses, and the book I had been reading. I turned to face my lover and saw he was gazing at me intently, looking just a little smug as he sipped the contents of his own cup.

I took the black mug sprinkled with silver starry constellations away from his mouth and hands and snuggled it up to mine on the spool.

He was in my arms before I had to ask, almost before I opened my arms, and I met no resistance as I pulled his face to mine, running my hands through his thick sable hair and capturing his lips with my own.

I love this man, I thought, as I tasted the sweet liquor on his mouth as well, along with the faint flavour of toothpaste and, overlying it all, a dark sweetness uniquely his own. As I delved into that warm mouth, plundering with tongue, teeth and lips, then allowed him to do the same to me, the thought recurred: I love this man

Almost feverishly, we devoured each other, not wanting to overlook a single texture, or miss a single taste. I noticed the swing rocking in response to our actions, but didn't care.

And over it all, like an extra heartbeat, the refrain, over and over in my head: I love this man; I love him; I love you, Fox...

Abruptly he pulled away and I fell under that intense Mulder-scrutiny again.

"What?" I almost barked, feeling just a little naked and uncomfortable as he continued to stare at me.

Then, with a sigh, he fetched up hard against me, head on my chest, arms tight around my waist. His words were muffled, spoken into my chest, into my heart.

"Me too, Walter."

Mindreader, I thought again. Psychic.

I kissed his soft hair and whispered in his ear, "Stupendous."

 

Copyright 2000 Michele. All rights reserved. I went to law school.

 

* * *

 

Title: Battlestar  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: Sk/M  
Spoilers: None  
Rating: NC-17  
Beta: None  
Disclaimer: Boring but necessary disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised  
Feedback: Yes, PLEASE!   
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Summary: Walter and Fox's mood music, side one, track 3. (*giggle*, I said lube)

* * *

"If you feel the force throw your hands to the sky  
Put your hands up, get 'em up  
Put your hands up."  
          -5ive,  
          "Battlestar"

Skinner sat back on the couch, removed his glasses, briefly massaged the bridge of his nose, then stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. Mulder glanced over at him.

"Tired?" he asked.

"Ready for bed." Skinner replied.

Mulder smiled. "Aren't you always?" he said, and laughed. This comment earned him a light cuff across the head from Skinner, who growled, "Brat."

Mulder slapped him back, softly brushing the back of the older man's head, but when he tried to imitate the A.D.'s surly growl, the effect was lost with a snort and a giggle.

Fox Mulder giggling, thought Skinner, Christ, now there's an X-File.

Abruptly, he stood and stretched, arms raised high enough to pull his shirt from the waistband of his pants. The effect was not lost on Mulder, who stood with him and was now staring at him with all the subtlety of a five-year-old with his nose pressed to a candy store window.

"Ready for bed," Skinner said again, pulling Mulder gently into his arms. They gazed into one another's eyes for a long moment, chocolate to hazel, hearing the musicians in their hearts tuning up, beginning their nightly symphony with the music of longing.

Mulder reached up and tugged Skinner's face toward him, put his mouth over his, softly at first, then, feeling Skinner kissing back, with more passion. Their tongues played an intricate duet in and out of each other's mouths.

Removing one another's shirts was done swiftly without distracting either man from trying to devour the other.

Mulder's hands were everywhere on Skinner-back, stomach, chest-testing for sensitive areas, eliciting small moans from the older man.

Skinner grasped Mulder by the hips and pulled him tight to his body, chest to chest, groin to groin; Mulder spread his legs slightly, and Skinner thrust forward aggressively. Mulder whimpered against his mouth.

Skinner pulled his mouth away with a nip at Mulder's lower lip and was delighted when the younger man struggled to retrieve his lips. Skinner evaded skillfully and pressed his mouth to Mulder's ear, whispering, "Bed. Now." His warm breath caused a shudder to run through the body pressed against him.

Skinner led Mulder upstairs to the bedroom. At the door, they kissed again, holding each other close. Skinner let his hands wander down to Mulder's back to rest on the cleft of his buttocks, then pulled him in sharply. Mulder gasped and threw his head back, breaking contact with Skinner's ravenous mouth. Skinner licked his throat instead, pushing him steadily back towards the bed.

Mulder fell across the bed, arms high above his head, eyes closed, and chest rising and falling quickly as shallow, panting breaths parted his lips.

Skinner quickly removed the rest of Mulder's clothing, then reached for his naked lover like Jonny Lang reaching for his 12 string. Mulder writhed frantically as Skinner's hands played all new and exciting riffs across his body. He was nearly about to lose himself in climax, and at that moment, Skinner stepped back and began to remove his pants. Mulder eyed him hungrily, kiss-swollen lips parted in anticipation. He touched himself lightly, lazily, wantonly.

Skinner disrobed completely, and Mulder saw that the other man was as ready as he was. He pointed at the bedstand, and Skinner nodded. He walked over to the table and found the small bottle of lubricant. Mulder helped him prepare himself, and he found it difficult to breathe.

Skinner climbed into bed and on top of Mulder, entering him in one quick and masterful stroke. Mulder groaned and raised his hips off the bed, filling himself completely. Quickly the border between pain and pleasure was crossed as Skinner re-aquainted himself with Mulder's sensitive neck. He nuzzled and nibbled at his throat and earlobe, and Mulder turned his head to permit him better access. One of his hands roamed through Mulder's sweat damp hair, while the other hand reached down between his legs and squeezed, then stroked, slowly...

All the while he kept up an intense rhythm with his hips, finding the music locked deep within himself, within his lover...

Mulder contracted his muscles, and Skinner pushed on harder, losing himself in the song that bound the two of them together. They thrust and bucked and tossed about, dancers of the most erotic sort. It seemed to go on forever, and sometimes they wanted it to, and sometimes it became too much, and they begged one another to make it end. But what had begun as a simple scale had suddenly become a raging orchestral movement and neither one could stop it. Together they cried out, their voices melding into one heraldic note, as they came together.

Skinner didn't pull out right away. He stayed right where he was, letting the last of the incredible sensations wash over both of them. His kisses became softer, more loving and less carnal in nature. He discovered that Mulder's lips were swollen and red, and he had tears in his eyes; tears that matched his own. He began to apologize for his exuberance, but Mulder kissed away the words, for their bodies were still playing the music, and there was no need for lyrics for this particular melody; not yet.

 

Copyright 2000 Michele. All rights reserved. I went to law school.

 

* * *

 

Title: Listen to the Radio  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: Sk/M  
Spoilers: None  
Rating: NC-17  
Beta: None  
Disclaimer: Boring but necessary disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised  
Feedback: Yes, PLEASE!   
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Summary: Walter and Fox's mood music, side one, track 4. When an unstoppable Fox meets an immovable Walter...

* * *

"In the city late at night,  
Double feature, black and white  
Bitter tears and taxi to the club  
Find a bar, a boy, a fight,  
Show your papers, be polite  
Walking home with nowhere else to go..."  
          - Pukka Orchestra  
           "Listen to the Radio"

Another night, another fight...

This nonsensical rhyme jangled through Fox Mulder's mind as he half-walked, half-staggered down the dimly lit street, eyes focused on nothing but the cracked pavement beneath his feet. He tried to stop the voices in his head in order to make some sort of decision on what he was doing, and thought he might have succeeded as the words faded, only to discover that their passing had left a new thought in his mind, one he liked even less.

The fight was one-sided, all his. He had come home to Walter's apartment with an agenda, and he knew it, even as he slammed the door, dropped his briefcase and glared at his lover.

He was yelling as he crossed the living room to where Walter was standing up from the couch, his welcoming smile melting into a confused frown as he tried to make sense of Mulder's ranting. He didn't speak as the younger man approached him, just continued to stare at him with that small frown.

This only made Fox angrier, and more words spewed out of him, not words about the case that was no longer his, or the executive decision that had made him feel like a punished child, but words of a more personal nature, words intended to wound the man standing before him, words intended to deflect hurt.

Walter's hand slapping his face cut the words off cold.

It wasn't a particularly hard slap, but Fox's cheek reddened as his eyes widened and he brought his own hand up to the spot. The silence was thick and heavy as the two men stared at each other.

Walter made the first move, eyes darkening with remorse as he reached out in apology to hold his lover.

Fox turned without a word, and walked out the door, eyes filling, a strangled sob barely held in check until he reached the elevator.

It started to rain, and Mulder kept walking, kept thinking, kept crying.

Another night, another fight...

Too much tequila made it hard to dispel the words aching in his head. He didn't want to think, but anything would be better than this dark refrain cutting into his brain over and over. He tried not to notice the lights shining out of the apartment window high above him.

He had walked blindly for blocks, finding a bar, finding darkness and smoke and lost souls, and feeling welcome in the bleakness.

He had drank without tasting what he was drinking, flirted automatically without realizing it, and nodded without argument when the bartender cut him off. Nearly collapsing off the barstool told him more than just that the bartender was right. It told him more than he wanted to know.

I deserved it he thought dully, hand going back to his face, now wet with tears and rain, I wasn't talking, I was accusing; I wasn't listening, I was ignoring; I wasn't letting him in, I was pushing him out.

He walked into the foyer, and stood in front of the elevator, wondering if he could do this, wondering if he'd be invited back in, wondering why he insisted on destroying everything good in his life. He entered the elevator, and tried to make himself less rain-soaked, less tear-stained, less afraid.

The apartment door opened before he could knock, and he found himself staring into dark eyes as tear-reddened as his own. They stood there for a long time, two men of conscience at an impasse, neither one willing to join, neither one willing to walk away.

"I am such an asshole," they said in unison.

With nowhere else to go, Fox Mulder walked through the door Walter Skinner held open for him.

 

Copyright 2000 Michele. All rights reserved. I went to law school.

 

* * *

 

Title: Home for a Rest  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: Sk/M  
Spoilers: None  
Rating: NC-17  
Beta: None  
Disclaimer: Boring but necessary disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised  
Feedback: Yes, PLEASE!   
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Summary: Walter and Fox's mood music, side one track 5-If liquor is a crutch, Southern Comfort is a wheelchair...

* * *

"You'll have to excuse me I'm not at my best  
I've been gone for a month; I've been drunk since I left  
These so-called vacations will soon be my death  
I'm so sick from the drink I need home for a rest."  
 -Spirit of the West  
  "Home For A Rest"

He was drunk. I know that's no excuse, not for him, and not for me. But I cling to that thought, knowing that there is comfort in the shift of blame from man to bottle. I don't know if he blames me or not. I don't know if I want him to. It might be easier that way...

Scully told me where to find him. I was leaving the office, late as usual, having spent several hours with their last case, trying to find a way to justify it at the budget meeting scheduled for the next day, not sure if there was a way, but hoping nevertheless.

She caught me in the hall, gave me a look that I misinterpreted, and told me that he had left in anger and in hurt, nothing new for him, then told me why and gave me another look. This time my misinterpretation was deliberate. I felt like she could read my mind. After this many years in casa del Spooky, it wouldn't surprise me. Then she told me where to find him.

I knew the bar well. I spent many a scotch-blurred night there when the divorce was final, even more after she died. They have a guarantee in that bar, a promise that no lonely souls who walk in there will walk out again, except on the backs of their knees. Not the healthiest of rules, but few complain.

He was seated at the bar, and the bartender was just in the process of cutting him off when I walked up. Mulder turned sharply when I barked out his name in my best surly A.D. voice, managing to both upset the pyramid of shooter glasses he had constructed on the bar as well as slide gracelessly off the barstool to puddle at my feet. I might have laughed had it been anyone else.

I hauled him to his feet none too gently, found his coat draped over the seat of the next barstool, then turned to the bartender, who simply shrugged.

"Hey, Shane, this is the guy I was tellin' you about." Mulder was addressing the bartender, seemingly oblivious to the fact that only my arms were keeping him upright.

The bartender gave me a tight smile, then muttered something under his breath that might have been "Bastard." Then, with a sigh, he asked, "Do you need a cab?"

"I'll make sure he gets home." I glared at the man only because I didn't know what else to do, then dragged a protesting, slurring Mulder out the door.

He was staggering drunk, barely keeping his footing, and I held on to him tightly, not thinking about what I was thinking about, just concentrating on getting him to the car. Guilt rode on my shoulders, making his 170 pounds just that much harder to move along. But I do work out, often, and I managed. We made it to where I had parked and I pressed him up against the back door while opening the front, then shoved him roughly into the seat. He collapsed there like an unstrung puppet, sprawled across the seat, head down, breathing heavily through his mouth.

I quickly got into the driver's side, started the car and put down the automatic windows. I didn't like the way he was breathing and, guilty or no, I wasn't going to pay my penalty in re-used alcohol on the floor of my car.

I put his seatbelt on for him. He had been mute to this point, and I suppose I would have been grateful for it had I known what was coming. I had just clicked the locking mechanism on the belt home when he suddenly came to life, pushing my hands away and fumbling with the belt.

"Lemme go," he demanded. "You have no right to do this. I wanna go home!"

"Mulder, shut up!" I snarled. "You are drunk, and home is exactly where I plan to take you. So just put a lid on it!"

I expected an angry drunken retort. I expected a sullen drunken silence. I expected physical violence. I did not expect tears.

"Agent Mulder...?" I was dumbfounded. My own experience with tears has been pretty limited, I have to admit; mostly women's, mostly used as tools, rarely my own. I was vaguely aware of my hand moving forward of it's own volition to pat awkwardly at his shoulder. He wrenched away from me violently, buried his face in his hands, and, in a muffled voice I heard him say, "You hurt."

I drove him home.

All the way thinking he's right. I hurt. I bruise. I punish with impunity, take away chances before they exist, play political hardball with his life's work, his heart's desires. And then watch the pain unfold as if it wasn't my fault, as if my hands were clean, as if I didn't mean to.

By the time I had parked at his apartment building, the tears had tapered off to occasional sniffles and hiccoughs, and the hazel eyes that focused on mine were, while still shiny with pain, at least a little less drunk. A little.

But he couldn't manage the seatbelt, despite several choice cursewords saved, presumably, just for an occasion such as this, and he didn't protest when I offered a wordless arm around his waist to keep him from falling on his ass.

Up to the apartment, and all the time thinking I don't want to hurt this man. I admire him; hell, I think I even like him-and all I do is hurt him, in the name of my position, my pension, my safety.

Found his keys, opened the door, and led him through the dark room to sit on the couch, thinking I don't have to hurt him. I can show him that I don't always hurt...

"Coffee?" I asked, and something in my voice must have alerted him, or at least confused him, because he looked up at me from his half-sitting, half-lying position on the couch, eyes narrowing, wheels turning. I could see it happening, see him trying to read something mean into a soft word. I could also see that he was still drunk.

"Just get out...sir." A watery sigh and he closed his eyes.

Somehow, I don't know how, I knew he wanted me to leave, not to spare him embarrassment, or even pain, but rather, to prove to himself that I would leave, that I would hurt him by leaving, and that he deserved to be hurt. This insight startled me, but I couldn't deny the true feeling of it. Maybe a little Spooky was rubbing off on me too.

I sat down next to him on the couch, slipped off my suit jacket and tossed it on the nearby chair. Loosened my tie, and undid the top two buttons of my shirt. His eyes were still closed, but they flew open, alarmed when I put an arm around him. He struggled briefly, but I kept a tight grip around his shoulders, not painful, just strong. Slowly his struggles ceased as slowly I pulled him closer. When his body made contact with my chest, his arms snaked around my waist, seemingly of their own volition. I just held him there, enjoying the contact and enjoying the knowledge that I was not hurting him. He also kept his own counsel, face buried in my shoulder, hands slowly moving up and down my back.

I relaxed my grip, he did the same, looked up at me, confusion and something else warring in his eyes, changing them from soft hazel to brilliant green and back again.

"I will not hurt you, Mulder." Each word was delivered in my softest voice.

I lightly brushed my mouth over his, barely making contact, but making my intentions known nevertheless. He didn't seem alarmed by my actions, just a little startled. I bent my head forward again, this time making the kiss more deliberate, taking my time to taste his whole mouth. When his lips parted I slipped my tongue between them and savoured him fully. I kept kissing until I felt more than heard a small whimper escape him. Pulling away, I gave him my best "I'm in control" look and told him again, "I will not hurt you."

"Sir-" he began tentatively, but I kissed away his words, still holding him cradled to my chest. With my free hand I reached for his tie, deftly unknotted it and dragged it away from his shirt collar. The buttons were no challenge, and soon he was bare from the waist up. I let my hand roam the contours of his chest, pausing at each nipple to rub just a little harder with my thumb, swallowing the small sounds this evoked.

If I had taken a moment to consider my actions, I may have reconsidered them. However, he chose that moment to press hard against me, and I was suddenly doing this for more than just the chance to prove my good intentions. If this was the path to hell, I was suddenly not just a traveler but a rest stop, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

With that same deliberate tenderness, I moved forward, pushing him back on the couch, still cradled on my arm. I covered his body with mine, and began an oral tour of his chest, tasting supple flesh over wiry muscle. Suckling at each small nipple in turn made him whimper and squirm beneath me, and I could feel his desire building. I recaptured his mouth, this time letting him do his own exploring, as I undid his belt and the buttons on his pants. A reshifting of my weight allowed me to fully unclothe him, and I abruptly abandoned his mouth again, reacquainted myself with his chest, then moved lower, pulling my arm out from under him to grasp his hips and place a small kiss on one of them.

It had been a long time since Vietnam, but I guess it's just like riding a bicycle.

I took my time, prolonged his pleasure, and, when at last I allowed him release, I knew that this was the way it was supposed to go. This was the only, best way to show him that I would not hurt him. My heart was telling me where this was leading, and it sounded so sincere, so true, that it drowned out my mind's guilt as well as my body's desire. I knew those things would have to be addressed soon, if not now, but for right this moment, it was enough just to take Mulder back into my arms and press tender kisses to his damp brow and eyelids. I held him for a long time, carding his thick sable hair with my fingers. I felt his breathing relax into sleep, and I laid him back down on the couch. A worn but serviceable blanket lay across the back of the couch, and I pulled it down over his naked body. He stirred, and turned onto his side, but didn't wake.

One more kiss to his brow as I stood, and one last brush to an errant lock of hair that had fallen forward; then I left him to his dreams, wondering what was going to happen next, wondering if this was going anywhere, or if he would even remember, but not wondering at all what I had done. I hadn't hurt him. And I wouldn't again.

 

Copyright 2000 Michele. All rights reserved. I went to law school.

 

* * *

 

Title: It's a Fine Day  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: Sk/M  
Spoilers: Just a little one for Demons-I couldn't help it!  
Rating: NC-17  
Beta: None  
Disclaimer: Boring but necessary disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised  
Feedback: Yes, PLEASE!   
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Summary: Walter and Fox's mood music, side one track 6-The morning after the night before...

* * *

"It's going to be a fine night tonight  
It's going to be a fine day tomorrow..."  
Opus III  
"It's A Fine Day"

Fox Mulder awoke disoriented and with a distinct feeling that something in his life had gone terribly, terribly awry. He shifted marginally from where he was lying and felt warm pressure at his back. Taking a moment to process this, he shifted again, and a moment later heard a muzzy groan, and a strong arm was flung around his body, pulling him into that warm pressure again.

His eyes opened and he looked down at the arm snaked around his body, the hand attached to the end of it firmly pressed to his stomach. Again a moment for his mind, which appeared to have taken an inexplicable leave of absence without filing the proper requests, and he recognized the hand. Or at least, if he couldn't put a face to the hand, he knew he could eliminate several, such as Scully, Holly from admin, or the cute waitress at the Starbucks down the street from his apartment. It was a man's hand.

While one part of his mind fixated solely on this fact, the rest of his brain was free to categorize all the other anomalies of this situation. The king-size bed was soft, comfortable and definitely not his couch. The pillow under his head was not the arm of said couch, the navy duvet flung carelessly over his hips was not the old Navajo blanket that resided across the back of said couch.

He wasn't wearing pajamas, which wasn't unusual; he wasn't wearing anything, which was.

Reality washed over him in a great wave as he turned to face the man who held him, turned to meet wide- awake brown eyes and a tentative smile.

"Good morning, Mulder," said Assistant Director Skinner.

"Uh-" was his intelligent reply.

This masterful display of articulation earned him a kiss on the nose and another attempted smile.

"It is a good morning, isn't it?" Skinner scrutinized him carefully.

Mulder looked away from that invasive gaze, discovered that this move brought his focus to Skinner's muscular chest, and rolled away from the other man with a sigh. Skinner let him go, reluctantly, then propped himself up on one arm to continue to stare at him as he stared at the ceiling.

"I guess it's better than waking up in a hotel room in Rhode Island with some old lady's blood on your shirt, " he said dryly.

"I'm sure," replied Skinner, adopting Mulder's dry tone, not sure where this was going, knowing only where he wanted it to go, but opting to follow the younger man's lead at this critical juncture.

Another sigh, and Mulder scrubbed a hand across his face, still trying to multi-task a million things at once, some of them emotional, and having a hard go of it.

A silence ensued, not quite comfortable, and then Skinner asked, in an off-handed manner, "Unhappy?"

Mulder checked. "No...I don't think so." He was feeling a thousand things in that moment, some of them alien, most of them good, but couldn't find the words.

"You were crying in your sleep, is why I ask." Again the casual tone, although Skinner was still staring at Mulder like he was, god forbid, important.

A dozen different answers formed in Mulder's mind, some of them lies, but he felt compelled to tell the truth. "Nightmares. I get them once in a while. No big deal." He tried to dismiss them. Skinner couldn't allow it. He had to know where this was going, how the other man was feeling, what was going to happen next. But it wouldn't be easy, and he knew the only way he could get Mulder to open up was to let him know he didn't have to.

"I have them too."

Mulder risked glancing at the older man, wondering if he was being humoured. He only found calm and kindness in eyes like oak leaves in fall. He looked back up at the ceiling.

Skinner reached out a tentative hand to caress Mulder's chest. When there was no response, positive or negative, he did it again, just lightly brushing his fingers along the fine hair down the center of the younger man's torso.

Mulder caught his hand, curled it into his own, but didn't speak for a long time. Skinner let him keep his silence, just enjoying the minimal physical contact between them.

"I get them a lot," Mulder finally said. It was a warning, and Skinner's heart leapt at it. He continued, "Especially when... He stopped, looked at Skinner again, almost smiled, changed his mind, then brought their clasped hands to his mouth, kissed Skinner's knuckles and let his hand go.

"Especially when what?" Skinner's voice was soft, afraid of prying, of scaring the younger man who had just offered so much, but needing to know.

"Especially when my 302's are denied...sir." A smile, like a rainbow after the storm, broke through the stony façade.

"Smart ass."

 

Copyright 2000 Michele. All rights reserved. I went to law school.

 

* * *

 

Title: Never ending Story  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: Sk/M  
Spoilers: None  
Rating: NC-17  
Beta: None  
Disclaimer: Boring but necessary disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised  
Feedback: Yes, PLEASE!   
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Summary: Walter and Fox's mood music, side one, track 7-All the answers are here, but where are the questions?

* * *

"Rhymes that keep their secrets  
Will unfold behind the clouds,  
There above the rainbow  
Is the answer to the never ending story."  
\- Limahl  
"Never ending Story"

Walter Skinner looked across the table, where his best agent, worst headache and finest lover sat picking at his food, making what appeared to be a spaceship out of mashed potatoes. He made a mental note to not let Fox pick out the videos next time they went to Blockbuster, then cleared his throat conspicuously.

Fox added peas and carrots to the mess in the center of his plate.

Walter sighed and turned back to his own supper. He finished eating in silence, every once in a while glancing over at the enigmatic young man he had taken into his life, thinking that there were easier things than loving Fox Mulder-like nailing jello to a tree, for instance. Aside from the age thing, the gay thing and the we're-both-government-employees-what-the-hell-are-we-thinking thing, there was also the question that burned brightest in Walter's heart and mind. How do you love a man who can't love himself?

Well, no one said life was easy.

Finishing the last of his supper, Walter stood, picked up his empty plate, and cleared his throat again.

Fox looked up from his plate, startled back to earth from whatever planet he had been inhabiting during the meal, looked guilty, as usual, then stood as well, plate-art in hand, and came around the table to stand next to Walter.

"I'll get the dishes," he said, reaching for the empty plate his lover held. Walter didn't relinquish it, however. Instead he held his hand out for Mulder's plate.

Again the quick guilty look, the one that made Walter want to go out and shoot every person who had taught Fox to look like that, and the plate, missing none of the food that had been put on it earlier, was thrust almost angrily at him.

Walter regarded the sculpture for several minutes, turning the plate this way and that, until Fox was nearly squirming. He set it back down on the table, adjusted an angle, and then declared, "I like it."

Fox was taken aback. He had expected some surly comment about his eating habits, his attention span, and maybe even a stab about starving children in Africa, just for good measure. He realized that Walter had done it again. He seemed to always know just what Mulder was used to, then made sure he always did the opposite. It made for a torturous guessing game, and he thought again that there must be easier things than loving Walter Skinner-like not breathing, for example. Aside from the age thing, the gay thing, and the nightly-coin-toss thing, there was also the question that burned brightest in Fox's heart and mind. How do you love a man when you can't even love yourself?

It's worth it, though, thought Walter as he smiled at Mulder's shocked expression. He's exasperating, annoying, closed off, guilt ridden, orally fixated, and a pain in the ass. He's also brilliant, beautiful, caring, orally fixated, and I love him.

"You're no Michealangelo, but I like what you did with the peas." Walter smiled at Fox, gave him a sloppy kiss on his still gaping mouth, then turned away to put his own plate into the sink.

Mulder followed him and put his arms around him from behind while Walter ran the water into the sink, resting his head on the older man's shoulder, silently relishing the strong muscular back and the safety he found there.

It's worth it, he thought, as Walter turned to face him and he found himself looking deep into smiling brown eyes. He's exasperating, annoying, rigid, anal retentive and a pain in the ass. He's also brilliant, gorgeous, loving, anal retentive, and he loves me.

"Jello," said Walter, kissing his cheek.

"Heads or tails," was the reply.

 

Copyright 2000 Michele. All rights reserved. I went to law school.

 

* * *

 

Title: Video Killed The Radio Star  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Spoilers: Blessing Way (just a little one)  
Rating: NC17  
Beta: None  
Disclaimer: Boring but necessary disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised  
Feedback: Yes, PLEASE!   
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Summary: Fox and Walter's mood music side one, track 8: Here's to you and here's to me, the best of friends we'll always be...

* * *

"In my mind and in my car  
We can't rewind, we've gone too far..."  
           - The Buggles  
"Video Killed The Radio Star"

Part 1

I couldn't help it. He just looked so worried, so hurting. I knew the rules, hell, I set most of them myself. I never had a problem keeping work at work, and home at home, until today. As his superior, there wasn't a damn thing I could do for him, compromised as I am, walking the fine line daily as I try to keep to the moral high ground. But as his lover, I knew what he needed. It wasn't about sex, just comfort. Just one moment where I could physically remind him that he wasn't alone on his quest, that he wasn't crazy for wanting to find the truth.

It was just a hug. A simple gesture that meant just as much to me as it seemed to mean to him. We were just standing there, my arms around him, his head resting on my shoulder.

And that's what Agent Scully saw when she walked into my office.

It would have been funny, I suppose, the way the three of us just stared at one another. Even funnier if the person observing had known that the last time the three of us had a screwed up Mexican standoff like this we were all pointing guns at one another. But I couldn't see the humour myself, and I doubt that either one of them could either.

"Sir, I-Kim said to tell you she was going for lunch..." I've never seen Agent Scully blush, and I don't think I want to again, although if the heat on my face was any indication, I was certainly giving her a run for her money in the red-face department. Conversely, Fox had turned a sickly white, and for a moment I thought he might faint. That would have been the icing on the cake. He had pulled away from me at Scully's entrance, but now moved closer, lightly touching my arm. He seemed to draw some kind of strength from this, and suddenly my legs that felt weak and rubbery, like he'd taken something from me. His colour came back in two hectic flaring spots of red, and he stepped quickly away from me.

"Lunch sounds great. C'mon, Scully, I'm buying." And he simply grasped her arm, turned her around and marched her from my office, his movements slicker than a used car salesman's.

Maybe I should have said something. Maybe I was the one who could put this right. But all I seemed to have the strength to do was stagger back to my desk and fall into my chair. Visions of unemployment lines and soup kitchens jumped into my mind, but I forced them away. She was a rational human being; Fox would make her understand. She wouldn't betray him.

I tried to envision the meal and ensuing conversation between the two of them, and all I got was a sick feeling in my stomach.

 

Part 2

"Mulder..."

Mulder busied himself with menu, cutlery, ketchup bottle, salt and pepper, pointedly avoiding looking at his partner.

"Mulder..."

He flipped the menu open and spoke to Scully from behind laminated cardboard walls. "Whatever you like, Scully, my treat. I hear they make a great tofu-burger here. Or-"

Scully slapped the menu out of his hand.

"Mulder." Her blue eyes froze him like a deer in the headlights. "Mulder...how long?" Her gaze forbade lying or silence.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably, then began to speak in his best dry profiler's voice: "Technically, I'd have to say seven years, since that's how long it's been since the X-Files first came under his direct supervision. Of course, take away the time we spent with A.D. Kersh, then add the number of times I remember seeing him at Quantico-" He was babbling and he knew it, but seemed powerless to stop, didn't know how to cut to the heart of the situation without sounding like some dumb kid with a crush.

Scully knew. She put her small hand on his arm and said, "It was the tenth, wasn't it?"

"Uh-I-" Quick mental math proved her correct, and he stared hard at her, wondering how she knew, what he or Walter may have given away, and, most importantly, who else might know. "How?" he demanded.

"Mulder, I'm your partner, your friend. I've seen you sick, even dying, hurting, ashamed, angry, obsessed, all these things, but-"

"But what?"

"Until the tenth..."

"What?"

Her hand was still warm on his arm. "I'd never seen you happy, Mulder."

He couldn't find a reply.

The waitress came, and Scully quickly scanned the menu, ordering something healthy. Mulder just asked for the same, earning him a patented Scully-raised-eyebrow, but no comment. The waitress took their orders, took their menus then took her leave. The conversation continued.

"But, Mulder, are you sure?" Scully asked.

"How can anyone be sure of anything, Scully? This is not an arena governed by science, although I must admit it does sound like an X-File." He offered her his most disarming grin, and she allowed herself to be disarmed, smiling back at him, but only for a moment.

"I just don't want to see you hurt, Mulder, and this seems like an ideal way to sabotage yourself."

"What do you mean?" Mulder found himself suddenly on the defensive. "It's not-I mean, Walter wouldn't-"

That hand again, able to calm all the furies of his heart and mind with just a small touch. For all that Walter had come to mean to him in the short time they had been together, for all that Walter's hands could and did make him feel, he still marveled in the soft touch of his partner, and the trust and love that could come from the most innocuous touch of a good friend.

"Mulder, all I'm saying is that this situation is dangerous. And not just in an X-File way. We've come a long way since Stonewall, but it's still not going to be easy."

"You think we don't know that?"

"And you work with him."

"Has it looked like he's showing favoritism?" He was referring to their last meeting with Skinner, where Mulder had been called on to justify every number on his cost sheet. Scully had to smile.

"I guess not." She sighed. "I'm going to have to get used to this, I guess. Sharing you, I mean. And getting to know the new and improved Happy-Mulder."

A brief memory surfaced in his mind of strong arms, lavish kisses and whispered words of love. He shook away the thought and Scully saw the golden banked glow of emotional embers in his brown eyes when he said. "I hope you have a lifetime to get used to this."

The waitress set two plates in front of them, muttering "Enjoy yer meal."

Scully laughed at the horrified expression on Mulder's face, and mimicked the waitress, saying, "Enjoy yer meal" as she picked up her tofu and sprout burger and took a big bite.

 

Copyright 2000 Michele. All rights reserved. I went to law school.

 

* * *

 

Title: It's Not Unusual  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk (of course)  
Spoilers: None  
Rating: NC17  
Beta: None  
Disclaimer: The usual, not mine, never were, not getting paid, thanks C.C., Fox and 1013.  
Feedback: Yes, PLEASE!   
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Summary: Fox and Walter's Mood Music, side 1, second last track. The picture really has nothing to do with the story, but my friend J. Sparks made it for me, and it's too wicked and lovely not to post. Thanks, J., and you're right, that Skinner is such a romantic!!

* * *

"It's not unusual to be mad with anyone.  
It's not unusual to be sad with anyone.  
But if I ever find that you've changed at anytime,  
It's not unusual to find that I'm in love with you."  
-Tom Jones  
  "It's Not Unusual"

Walter Skinner walked into his apartment with heavy steps that spoke of fatigue bordering on exhaustion. He groped for the lightswitch with eyes closed while dropping his suitbag and briefcase to the floor where they landed with a soft thud.

The conference had been a three day kiss-ass-a-thon, and Skinner had spent most of those three days biting his tongue and barely being polite as he listened to speeches, lectures and drunken rambling debates over the integrity of the Bureau and the men and women running it.

He was glad to be home, and not just because the stark structured quality of his apartment was a haven for his more-often-than-not-these-days chaotic thoughts and feelings, but because, once ensconced in this, his space, he could relax in a way that was totally impossible at work. It wasn't a mansion, but the Crystal City one bedroom was his home, and he relished being in total control of his tiny castle.

Dimly he realized that music was playing quietly, and he almost shut the light off, a half-formed thought of Fox Mulder sleeping on his couch coming to mind.

Fox Mulder was not sleeping on his couch.

The music was not speed metal, but it certainly wasn't to Skinner's taste, and he wondered again at his lover's eclectic nature as he slowly crossed the room to cut off Neil Tennant's voice.

"I don't know you, you don't know me  
I wonder what we share  
It's just that now and then you smile  
And suddenly I know you care  
And I'm the only one for a while  
Though you've many reasons  
To tell me a lie  
I can't help believing-"

He stopped the CD player and turned the power off on the stereo. He was just slightly annoyed to find the case for the CD on the floor rather than placed back in the CD tower, and just slightly grew to even more when he discovered more CDs on the floor with it, some of them not even in their cases. His jaw clenched as he stooped to pick up the discarded music, sorting and replacing them in the CD tower, thinking a place for everything... The last case was empty, and he felt a spark of real anger when he couldn't find the classical CD that was its mate. He stood and glanced around his living room, really noticing it for the first time since he had entered the apartment.

An open pizza box sat forlornly on the coffee table, with an equally forlorn half a pizza inside it. He didn't think the pizza had been sitting there long enough to rot, but he opted not to try and save it when he discovered a pile of sunflower seed shells gracing the top of the crust. A few shells were strewn across the table as well, and a crystal rocks glass was half-full of the discarded husks. A second glass still held a finger of scotch. No coasters were evident.

Walter sighed and picked up the pizza box with one hand, then used the CD case he was still holding to sweep the errant shells off the table and into the box. Trudging towards the kitchen to dispose of the offending item, he nearly tripped over a stack of file folders balanced precariously on top of one of the couch cushions, which, for some inexplicable reason, was sitting at the halfway point between the living room and the kitchen. Papers went sprawling, and Walter clenched his jaw again, thinking I am not anal-retentive, I am not anal retentive...

Not feeling so tired now, Walter dumped the pizza into the garbage, which, while not overflowing, certainly hadn't been taken out lately, as the jumble of juice boxes and candy wrappers in it could attest to.

"We've talked about recycling," Walter muttered under his breath. He could feel a headache wanting to take up residence in his temples, and he decided to head it off at the pass, reaching for a bottle of ibuprofen sitting on top of the fridge. He didn't know why it was there; he didn't want to know.

He decided to live dangerously and try and find some water to wash down the pills. Opening the fridge, he found the water pitcher (empty), the milk container (almost empty) and a Petrie dish with something odd and fuscia growing in it (wish it was empty).

He shook his head, dry swallowed the pills and closed the refrigerator, wondering how much longer he could put up with his own personal version of chaos theory. As the door closed, he caught site of a note held to the fridge by a small magnet shaped like a classic alien head. He didn't think it had been there before he left for the weekend-he was sure the magnet would have offended him on and off for the entire conference if he had seen it on Friday.

The magnet half obscured the note, so Walter pulled it off the fridge to get a better look. He felt something that had wanted to be cold and angry melting away inside him as he read:

   THINGS TO DO THIS WEEKEND:  
1\. take out garbage  
2\. check latest lab report re: BF w/Scully  
3\. feed fish  
4\. miss Walter!!

Thrusting the note into his pants pocket, Walter turned and left the kitchen, pausing only to turn out the light. He dropped his jacket and the CD case he was still carrying onto the couch in the living room, took a moment to leave his gun, I.D. and change on the table by the door, then turned out those lights as well. He took the stairs two at a time, loosening, then removing his tie as he did so, letting it drop on the last stair next to another tie, this one slightly more garish in nature.

More music was issuing from the bedroom, and blue television light spilled out of the doorway. Walter paused at the entrance of the room, and the last of the tension, which he generally carried constantly in his jaw, faded away.

Mulder was sprawled across the bed on his stomach, face turned towards the door, snoring softly. He was clad only in gray cotton boxers, and was completely uncovered, the quilt and sheets having apparently been built into some kind of liver-eating-mutant-nest on the far side of the bed. One arm lay supine at his side, the other was wrapped loosely around one of the pillows.

Walter just gazed at his lover for a long moment, then stepped into the room, kicking aside stray bits of Armani suit as he did so, and not minding at all. He pushed up the sleeves on his half-unbuttoned shirt, then crouched next to the sleeping man and softly brushed back an errant lock of hair, which had tumbled forward over Mulder's untroubled sleeping brow.

Mulder shifted sleepily under Walter's hand, then his eyes opened and he announced abruptly "I was drugged!"

Walter laughed and pulled 170 lbs. of confused half-asleep agent into his arms, falling onto the bed with him and covering his face in kisses. Mulder was trying to say something, perhaps an apology for the mess, perhaps an explanation, but Walter just kissed the words away.

Don't ever change he thought.

 

That'll teach you to use a coaster!

Copyright 2000 Michele. All rights reserved. I went to law school.

 

* * *

 

Title: Every Morning  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Spoilers: Pilot, Demons  
Rating: NC-17  
Beta: Don't have a beta, but would love feedback  
Disclaimer: Boring but necessary disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised  
Feedback: Yes, PLEASE!  
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Summary: You always hurt the one you love...(angst, angst...) Sort of a sequel to "Strange Disease" Fox and Walter's Mood music, Side 1, track 10.

* * *

"Every morning there's a heartache hanging  
From the corner of my girlfriend's four-post bed.  
I know it's not mine and I know  
She thinks she loves me but I never can believe what she said."  
  Sugar Ray  
  "Every Morning"

It's morning, but only in the technical sense. The sun isn't up yet, although the slice of sky that I can see through the half-closed blinds does have that metallic brittle look to it that I recognize as dawn's approach.

I glance over at the clock on the bedside table-it reads 4:24 am, and I wonder why I am awake.

I don't wonder long.

Every detail of last night is etched into my memory like initials on an oak tree and signifying just as much. Most days I am grateful for the ability to remember, the ability to hold onto even the most minute details of every report, every conversation, every feeling-

I wish I had amnesia.

I know my mind has the ability to block traumatic events-even with drugs, hypnosis and a damned hole drilled in my head, the memory of my sister's abduction is hazy, unsure, unreliable. Still, I have clung to half-remembered truths where she is concerned, my life becoming a running tribute to an event that I am not sure about. I have devoted myself to a cause that may or may not have actually happened.

I know that last night happened, and I don't need a hole in my head to remember it.

My body knows it, my mind knows it, my heart knows it. And yet, I want to deny it. To deny the truth. Me, "Spooky" Mulder, who's been shouting "the truth is out there" with the voice of a righteous martyr, demanding that the truth be revealed, that the names be named, that the word come forth though the heaven's fall-Jim Garrison on crack.

And now I wish I could censor the truth.

Walter suddenly shifts behind me, muttering something unintelligible, and his arms tighten around my waist. I can feel the heat of his body pressed tightly to mine, chest to back, groin to ass, and I like it. I revel in his touch, the strength of him, and the passion. Lust is a truth that I am glad to reveal. There is a certain honesty to it that cannot be denied by word or thought. It is what it is, and when it happens it happens. Just to prove my point, if only to myself, I move back against him, rubbing myself provocatively against him, feeling a not so subtle shift of muscle against my backside.

He wants me. I want him. Attraction based on mutual physical need. It's a primitive, animal thing, and I readily accept it, just as I have accepted him into my body, several times now. Not only accept, but accept willingly, an active participant in sexual congress, meeting his needs with my own. However it happened, this is the body he wants, and I want to give it to him.

I can't help it; I sigh aloud, and Walter moves again, hugs me tighter, slips a leg between mine. I think he is awake, and I hope he is and I hope he's not, and then he is still again, and his breathing takes on a regular rhythm that I can feel as warm breath on my neck.

My mind, my memory, wanders back to last night again.

I never questioned his motives, never tried to find the truth behind his actions. We started this with what I thought was perfectly clear intent. He wanted to fuck me; I wanted to get fucked. Okay, I was drunk the first time, but if you were going to proposition your boss, who also happens to be a man, and an ex-marine, and presumably straight, you would need a good dose of Dutch courage yourself.

Turns out he was going to ask first.

Regardless of who grabbed the situation by the balls first, pun definitely intended, the results were spectacular. A first kiss, lingering and strong, two big arms around me, his tongue inside my mouth, tasting, testing, and I never felt less drunk in my life, although I was having trouble standing. The dizziness of vodka had been replaced by wooziness brought on by lack of oxygen.

Those kisses haven't changed for me. Here we are a month later, and, last night, he again reduced me to man-shaped jello with a kiss. When his mouth is on mine, I lose all sense of reason, and find I can only cling to him, kiss him back, and hope he stops before I pass out. Or hope he never stops.

He never stops.

In hindsight, maybe this should have been a clue. I mean, there hasn't been a whole lot of lovin' goin' on at Casa del Spooky these days, hell, ever, but I haven't exactly been celibate either. And now, looking back with that cursed memory again, I can picture the other men who have come and gone, again pun intended, with a certain clinical detachment, and I find a remarkable similarity in their actions, or rather, lack of action-

No kisses.

Oh, the sex was great, to be sure. I never complained, neither did they. But something was missing, and I don't just mean names. Or beds. But there was something cold that I may have missed in the heat of the moment. It was always the same-get off anyway you can, I wanted to, the trick wanted to, and I don't think he cared whether I had eaten supper that day, and I know I didn't care if "Force 10 From Navarone" was his favorite film. It was just that physical need. And once satisfied, I felt no need to go back for seconds.

Now I want seconds, thirds, millionths...

Some investigator I am.

I should have known this was coming the first time. Again, it was all about the kisses.

Not just the passionate, scary kisses at the start, kisses that left me senseless and reeling, kisses that branded me, that made me want him more than ever. And not just the soft afterglow kisses either, the kind that made my body tremble, hypersensitive from orgasm and responding to every soft touch of his lips. But all the kisses in-between, those were the ones that should have tipped me off.

A soft kiss on the cheek when I would come over for supper, or to spend the night.

Inappropriate kisses on my ear, my nose, my chin, just because he felt like it, never a word of explanation, just his mouth on me for a moment, like he was laying claim to whatever part of my anatomy was handy.

Kissing my forehead, damp with sweat when I woke up from nightmares (which, I'm happy to note, has been happening less and less lately). Not a kiss in the pucker up sense, just his mouth resting on my hair, or brow while he whispered nonsense and held me tight, making sure I knew I was awake and safe.

All those kisses were his way of affirming something that I can't believe. And now he says he loves me.

He actually said it out loud.

It's not that I doubt his sincerity. Walter Skinner is nothing if not honourable. I just can't understand why he needed to say it. The kisses were enough for me, and they were something I could return. Something tangible and physical and easy to give, easy to take, and no need to look beyond the moment with them.

Somehow, the words scare me more than anything in any X-File.

I know he believes he loves me, but how can he know? He may love my body, but he doesn't know me enough to say he loves me. He can't love me. How could he, when he knows how truly screwed up I am? When he knows he can't depend on me. When he knows that I can't- won't-

Everyone I love gets hurt. Everyone I love leaves. Everyone I love dies.

The mantra of Mulder, and I feel my eyes water just thinking about it.

I can't let him love me, even if he wants to, even if I want him to, even if I-

Not going there.

I pull away gently, not wanting him to wake up, and, thankfully, he doesn't. I slide out of the bed and reach for my clothes, quickly dress, then turn, much like Lot's wife, to look at him.

Walter looks so young when he's asleep. No furrowed brow, no gritted teeth. He still lies on his side, arms still outstretched, holding air now, keeping it safe and warm.

I have to leave, but first I have to tell him something, somehow.

I only want to keep him from harm.

I return to the bed, lean over, and kiss him gently on the lips. He smiles in his sleep, and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like my name.

"Gotta go." I whisper as the first tear falls. I don't risk a second look back, merely walk away, touching my mouth and savoring a last kiss.

 

Copyright 2000 Michele. All rights reserved. I went to law school.

 

* * *

 

Title: It's All Been Done  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Spoilers: nothing in particular, just regular weekly angst  
Rating: Just PG this time-no slashy bits, just angst  
Beta: none, but feel free, I'll take all suggestions  
Disclaimer: Boring but necessary disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised  
Feedback: Please, lots,   
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Summary: More Mood Music-track 11, I think. Just another nightmare...

* * *

"If I put my fingers here  
And if I say I love you, dear.  
And if I play the same three chords,  
Will you just yawn and say...  
It's all been done before..."  
\- Barenaked Ladies  
  "It's All Been Done"

Mulder saw Walter walk into the lounge. Their eyes met for just a second, and Walter's face lit up with a smile, warming Mulder's heart. Mulder smiled in return, then turned to the man he had noticed standing next to him.

"He's here to see me," he confessed unexpectedly, but not unhappily.

There was no one there.

Mulder shrugged and decided to order drinks for Walter and himself. He walked over to the mahogany bar and waited for a bartender to notice him.

No one came. Mulder glanced down at the row of bottles behind the counter. They were thick with dust and mildew and, as he watched, a small brown spider crawled across the top of a vodka bottle.

He whirled with a gasp and the girl standing in line behind him disappeared just as he clutched at her.

Mulder whipped his head around frantically and caught sight of Walter, still walking towards him, still smiling, almost cherubically, and he found this frightened him even more.

A shiver raced through his body and he glanced down, discovering an evil ground fog had swallowed his feet and was perversely extending tendrils of non-substance up his legs.

With a strangled half-shout, half-sob, he lurched forward, nearly tripping, then breaking into a shambling run. Men and women alike vanished like smoke before him, leaving him alone but for Walter.

He reached the end of the now infinitely barren room and extended his arms out in a warding-off gesture that became a drawing-near gesture as he came closer to his lover. Walter reached out as well, and Mulder fairly lept into the embrace-

-and smashed into a huge mirror, reflecting a hideously distorted image of himself, scared, helpless and alone. He felt a thousand bee stings of broken glass driving into his body as he crashed to the floor. Blood oozed and he smeared it over the crushed mirror, wiping away the same horrible image of himself over and over as he tried to rise to his feet; tried and failed.

Walter was gone.

Mulder sat up abruptly in bed with a cry, his face and torso bathed in sweat. Uncontrollable spasms wracked his body as he tried to catch his breath. He covered his face with his hands, trying to cage the fear in him that raged and writhed like a wild animal. He tried to slow the pounding of his heart, and take deeper breaths, and will away the images that haunted him.

He broke. Tears sprang from his eyes and he shook with the force of his runaway emotions, sobbing loudly, the sounds emerging from him like the keening of a death-wail, without comfort, without solace, without hope.

Two strong arms wrapped themselves around him and gathered him close to a warm hard chest.

"Shh...It's okay," said Walter, in a voice that suggested liquid velvet in deep snow.

"Make it go away." Mulder heard the cringing tone in his voice, hated it, but was unable to control it.

"It's all right, Mulder...You're going to be all right...Shhh..."

Mulder let his head rest on the other man's breast, feeling a strong steady heartbeat there and wishing fervently that he could crawl inside it.

Walter kept his grip tight, his legs wrapping around Mulder's while his hands softly stroked arms and back, trying to undo knots of tension that had been tied a thousand years before. He murmured wordless soothing things, trying to will away the pain with his heart and mind, as well as his body.

Mulder trembled involuntarily, wanting to be soothed, unable to be. Silent tears of anguish rolled down his cheeks. He could feel Walter's breath rustle his hair and cross his brow, faint but insistent, like the approach of dawn's first light.

Tentatively, he placed one hand on Walter's arm, half-expecting him to vanish, and wholly surprised when he did not.

Walter took up a slow rocking motion and Mulder let his eyes slip shut, the forceful crying finally tapering off to intermittent sniffles and hitching in his chest.

"I'm scared," Mulder's voice was the softest trace of a lost murmur, and he spoke more to himself than to Walter.

"I'm here," Walter replied, reinforcing his words with a strong squeeze and a kiss on the forehead.

The comfort Walter offered eluded Mulder for many hours, but Walter never let him go, never gave into sleep himself. He held him tight and kissed and stroked him, and at long last, Mulder felt sleep coming to claim him. Mulder's last conscious thought before succumbing was please let him be here when I wake up.

He thought he heard Walter whisper "I will be."

 

Copyright 2000 Michele. All rights reserved. I went to law school.

 

* * *

 

Title: The Voice  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Spoilers: nada  
Rating: Just PG this time-I promise they'll be naked again soon!!  
Beta: none, but feel free, I'll take all suggestions  
Disclaimer: Boring but necessary disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised  
Feedback: Please, lots,   
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Summary: Fox and Walter's Mood Music, side one, final track. My attempt at answering the August Challenge. I was tryiing for angst, the boys demanded shmoop-oh well! Best read while listening to Matchbox 20 or Everything But The Girl

* * *

"Make a promise, take a vow  
And trust your feelings, it's easy now.  
Understand the voice within  
And feel the changes already beginning..."  
  The Moody Blues  
  "The Voice"

When the party was over, it was just the two of them...which is, of course, how this had all started. They were pleased at the success of their housewarming, not just at the reactions they had received about the house, but at the reactions to their relationship as well. Scully had been a given, of course, happy for Mulder in a way that only best friends can be, but the ease with which people as diverse as the Gunmen, Scully's mother, and Kim Cooke had accepted them being together...Mulder simply declared it an X-File, and Skinner had to agree with him.

Mulder sat cross-legged on the floor. Skinner sat across from him in the same position. Between them stood a bottle of sparkling wine, two glasses, and two lit votive candles, providing the only illumination in the room. Mulder thought it was romantic, and Skinner was just pleased that the dim light hid the remnants of the party from view.

"You pour," Mulder said, a slight tremor in his voice.

"No, you."

"All right." Mulder easily popped the cork on the bottle, and carefully poured two even glassfuls. He handed one to Skinner, who held his hand just a moment longer than was necessary before taking the glass from him. Mulder set the bottle down and picked up his own glass.

"To our new home?" Skinner queried, raising his glass slightly.

"No. I think, in honour of this occasion, we need to toast in a more traditional way; something heavy, and fraught with meaning."

Skinner could see the teasing glint in Mulder's eyes, and he gave him a smile in return.

"Here's to your hole..." he began, and was pleased to see that even candlelight couldn't hide the blush suddenly staining Mulder's cheeks. He paused briefly, enjoying the other man's discomfort, then let him off the hook.

"Family," he finished.

"Very clever, Walter," Mulder's words held laughter in them. "Very classy, too."

"We were never much interested in toasting royalty in Vietnam. And that was one of the classier ones I ever heard over beer cans." Skinner shook off the memory, not wanting anything to spoil the moment.

"How about..." Mulder began. Skinner gave him his attention.

"To men and horses..."

Skinner flinched slightly, knowing there was a punchline coming.

"May we always be able to mount them." Mulder kept his voice deadpan, and Skinner matched his tone.

"Well, that was certainly much classier. I always knew you were a closet thespian." The warm glow in his dark brown eyes cut the sarcasm of the words, and Mulder's mock look of hurt quickly faded.

"To you." Mulder's voice nearly failed him, and the words came out in a trembling voice husky with emotion. Skinner knew playtime was over, for now.

"To you," he replied, meaning it with every fiber of his being.

There was a moment of silence, and then in unison and quite by accident, they said together, "To us."

Mulder laughed and crashed his glass to Skinner's, then took a large swallow of wine. Skinner followed suit with a much more delicate sip. He marveled briefly at the taste, sweet and sour at the same time, and silently congratulated his partner on picking out a wine that had a sugar rating of less than 6, and a name that, while maybe not as classic as Dom Perignon, was at least a little more respectable than the last bottle Mulder had bought, a sassy welfare bouquet with the dubious name of "Strawberry Angel"-sugar rated 9. He didn't voice his thoughts aloud, but suspected that Mulder knew what he was thinking nevertheless, and had it confirmed when Mulder spoke.

"Asti Spumante...sounds like an old Italian woman with a moustache." He drained his glass.

"I'm just glad you bought something where the paper bag was optional." He picked up the bottle and waved it in the general direction of Mulder's empty glass, then poured when Mulder held it out to him.

"Trying to get me drunk, Walter?" Mulder teased.

"Always worked in high school," he replied.

"If you'll be captain of the football team, I'll be your cheerleader." Mulder smiled over the rim of his glass, teasing Skinner with words and actions. "But I have to warn you, I won't go all the way, unless you ask me to go steady."

Skinner had to laugh at the picture his mind presented him of Mulder in a kicky blue and gold cheerleader's skirt and sweater, with matching pom poms.

"What if I promised to respect you in the morning?"

"That's what they all say, Walter." He set his once again empty glass down and reached for the bottle. Skinner beat him to it, and added more wine to his own glass before offering any more to Mulder.

"I really like the place," Mulder's tone turned suddenly serious, and his eyes darkened. Skinner gazed into them a long time, losing himself in their hazel depths. Affirmations unspoken lay in them, and he tried to convey his own feelings the same way, but wasn't sure if he had succeeded, so he spoke then, a throaty whisper that trapped layers of emotion over the words:

"I do too."

******

An unknown time later, the wine was gone, the candles burned out, and Mulder and Skinner were laughing over something that neither one could remember. Mulder lay stretched out on the floor, while Skinner sat with one leg bent under him, back resting against the black leather couch.

Sobering suddenly, Skinner took a minute just to enjoy the view of a moonlit Mulder, still laughing and rolling on the floor, bathed in ephemeral glow, looking for all the world like one of the aliens he was constantly seeking.

"Come here."

Skinner's voice was low, but Mulder responded immediately, a last giggle fading as he sat up and peered through the not quite darkness at his lover. A moment later he was kneeling before the other man, smiling as Skinner pulled him gently into his arms, pressing his lips to his hair, his forehead, his nose (making him laugh again), and his mouth.

Mulder's mouth opened and he relished the possessive thrust of the other man's tongue as Skinner kissed him thoroughly and lavishly, leaving him breathless when he finally pulled away. Still holding the younger man in his strong embrace, Skinner stood, bringing Mulder up with him. Only then did he realize the effects so much wine in so short amount of time had had on him, and he staggered and fell back onto the couch, pulling Mulder down on top of him.

Both men found this to be the height of hilarity, and they laughed together for several minutes. Skinner felt his heart leap at the joyous sounds coming from his lover, knowing the other man's penchance for guilt, remorse and sadness, and happy to see that he could keep Mulder's personal demons at bay, if only for a while.

Mulder would feel himself coming under some kind of control, and then he would feel Skinner's chest convulsing with laughter beneath him, and he'd be off again, almost hysterical. He knew he was a little bit drunk, but he knew that wasn't the heart of it-he was also, god forbid, incredibly happy.

Finally with one last snort which threatened to send Skinner into another laughing fit, Mulder settled himself, resting his weight more evenly on Skinner's body, fitting them together like parts of a puzzle, chest to chest, eye to eye. Skinner put his arms around Mulder's shoulders, and Mulder put both hands on the nape of Skinner's neck.

"Is this still part of the high-school scenario, Walter?" Mulder asked, his voice teasing.

"I don't think so," Skinner replied, his voice rough.

"So you're not going to tell me that if I really loved you..." Mulder let the words trail away suggestively.

"That line never worked in high school."

"It could work now." It didn't sound like Mulder was joking now.

Skinner kissed his lover's cheek before asking, "You really love me?" He tried to keep his tone light, but thought he must have failed when Mulder didn't reply for a long time. Skinner didn't want Mulder to think he was pushing, so in the silence that followed he busied himself with running his hands through the other man's silken hair, down his neck and across his shoulders. He kept his gaze averted, but could feel Mulder's eyes on him.

"I love you, Walter." The words were spoken so quietly that Skinner at first couldn't believe he'd heard Mulder correctly. He'd wanted to hear them for so long now. He'd never doubted the depth of feeling that his lover had for him, but Mulder had never said the words out loud. And now...

"Oh, Fox." There was nothing else to do but to kiss him, again and again, making him laugh, making him breathless, making him want more. "I love you, too."

******

The scene was nearly the same. The wine, the candles and Skinner all sat on the floor. The bottle was empty, the candles nearly down to wick and puddle, and Skinner was slumped against the couch. He shook his head to clear away the memory. Why had he thought of that night anyway?

"Because you're drunk," he startled himself when the words came out loud. The rest of the thought formed in his mind only; and you always get sappy and sentimental when you're drunk

He looked around the dark room, picturing Mulder here, remembering...

He'll be good as new, soon, and then he'll be back home. He tried a deep breath, to see if that would make him believe it.

Skinner had gone to the hospital today, relieved and overjoyed that Mulder had come out of the coma. Now he was awash with despair, remembering the confusion that had coloured Mulder's eyes green. He hadn't known who Skinner was. Hadn't remembered him. At all...

Skinner buried his face in his hands and wept.

 

How did Fox wind up in a coma? How long have the boys been together? Did the Gunmen really party with Scully's mom? You decide-this is a vignette, not a soap opera *L*

Copyright 2000 Michele. All rights reserved. I went to law school.

 

* * *

 

Title: Careless Whisper  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Spoilers: nada  
Rating: NC-17  
Beta: none, but feel free, I'll take all suggestions  
Disclaimer: Boring but necessary disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised  
Feedback: Please, lots,   
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Summary: Another answer to the dancing Walter question...Fox and Walter's mood music, Side 2 track 1  
Author's note: I am sure that there are lots of gay bars in Memphis, but I've never been there, and Buddies is just a pigment of my infatuation, based loosely on the Outside, Regina's premiere gay and lesbian dance bar. The water is for Jon, the staff for Kim and Ed D., and the dancing for Jae. Thanks also to Yada for putting the music in my head while I wrote this. (Two-Faced by Louise and New York City Boy by PSB)

* * *

"I feel so unsure,  
As you take my hand and lead me to the dance floor..."  
-Wham  
Careless Whisper

He knew it was a bad idea from the start. He knew he should have refused. He knew it could get ugly. And he knew that he could never deny Fox anything.

*****

It was the last night of their first trip. Away. Away from the office, away from the X-Files and away from anyone who might wonder just what was up with a certain assistant director and the bureau's number one profiler.

Walter had wanted to go camping, Fox wanted to go to Graceland. They had compromised and wound up renting a tent trailer and jeep with a hitch in Memphis. For the duration of their trip, they wound up driving wherever the spirit took them, stopping when they felt like it, often in RV parks, more often just out in whatever wooded area looked appealing, always fairly close to the city. Walter's need for seclusion and rugged outdoorsmanship was satisfied, and Fox was content knowing he was never more than a day's drive from fast food and 24 hour convenience stores.

Fox let Walter skip the trip to the" Mecca", and in return, Walter let Fox wear his aviator shades to bed that night, and even managed not to laugh when, just before sleep claimed him, he heard his lover mutter, "thank you; thank you very much."

Now it was the last night, and Fox wanted to go dancing. Walter tried on a surly superior frown at this suggestion, but after two weeks of long hand holding walks, even longer starlit conversations, and, of course, hours of mind numbing sex, the look just didn't fit so well anymore.

"I thought we could spend our last night here," he said.

'Here' was Pandora's RV Park, an all-amenities included park situated approximately half an hour's drive from the city. There were plenty of trees and grassy fields surrounding it, providing the illusion of primeval forest, while still preserving the urban needs of the campers there, including shower and bathroom facilities, power and water.

"According to Damron's Guide, Buddies is supposed to be the best club in the city." Fox replied. He was quiet for a moment, letting Walter process this, then he reached over and took his lover's hand, held it for a moment and said, "I'd really like to do this, Walter. Once we go back..."

 He didn't need to finish the statement. Walter knew, even with friends as supportive as Dana Scully and the Lone Gunmen, so long as he and Fox both worked for the federal government, in their supervisor/agent roles, fighting a shadowy government conspiracy that threatened their lives daily, there would be no pride parades in their future. Not that he needed to confirm the love he felt for his partner with any sort of public displays, but still, he understood how Fox felt, knowing all about those days where just being able to walk across the common hand in hand, or stand in a loose embrace in front of the monument, would have been just about the finest feeling ever.

Still, this was a gay bar Fox was talking about. They had read the guidebook together before the trip, laughing over some of the descriptions, but not really serious about visiting any of the clubs, bars, baths or bistros that Damron recommended. At least, Walter hadn't been serious. He apparently had missed the boat on Mulder's feelings. He vaguely remembered that Buddies was a dance club, all ages, all genders, with strippers on Fridays and lesbian pool tournaments every second Wednesday.

Today was Saturday.

And tomorrow, they would return the car and trailer to the rental company and fly back to the land of suits and ties, paperwork and meetings, secrets and closets...

Walter stood up and brushed a kiss across Fox's brow.

"All right. But you're buying."

The strong hug and lingering kiss of thanks made him very comfortable with his decision.

*****

Walter drove while they were on the highway, but let Fox take over when they stopped to fill the Jeep with gas at a station on the outskirts of the city, knowing that his lover's amazing memory would get them to Buddies quicker than any number of maps he might try to navigate with.

Not having to concentrate on traffic, lights or directions gave Walter plenty of opportunity to observe Fox while he drove. He drank in the sight of his lover like a thirsty man in the desert, thinking he could never get enough.

Both men had availed themselves of the showers at the campsite, and Fox's hair was still damp, slightly curling at the base of his skull. Not for the first time, his hair made Walter think of a mink pelt, both the texture and the colour, and he gave into the impulse to stroke the other man's head, just for a moment. Fox glanced over and smiled.

Mulder wore plain blue jeans, slightly worn but serviceable, a white sleeveless t-shirt, and a simple gray v-neck sweater over it. Completing the outfit with black runners with white accents gave him a college-boy air that made Walter feel slightly dirty. Deciding that he wasn't uncomfortable with this, he reached over and squeezed Mulder's thigh lovingly. He was given another spectacular smile in return.

He didn't realize that he didn't really look the part of a chicken hawk tonight, regardless of Mulder's attire. He was dressed all in black. Black chinos, black shoes, black lycra/cotton polo, all hugging muscular curves tight enough to accent, not tight enough to bind. Despite the approving leer he had received from Fox after dressing, he felt a little ridiculous, like an old man trying to grasp at the vestiges of youth. Part of him wished he owned contact lenses, and still had hair. He wasn't the co-dependent type, by any stretch, but every now and then, he wondered just what the hell Mulder saw in him.

Mulder found the nightclub in short order. He parked the Jeep around the back of the building, turned off the car and undid his seatbelt. Then he turned to his lover and took Walter's face in his strong hands.

"Thank you, Walter. I appreciate this. I really do."

"Fox-"

Mulder cut him off with a kiss. Then, still holding him, he said, "I know that this is unusual for you-hell, I've never been a club kid, even when I was a kid-" He smiled so sweetly that Walter felt his chest tighten, then continued. "I just want to be somewhere where I can be myself, with you, and not be always wondering who's waiting to cross us, to hurt us. I want them to be watching me, not because I'm a threat to an ongoing government conspiracy, but because I am with the most handsome man in the world, and I love him."

Walter was a little stunned by the speech, and more than a little moved. His self-doubt evaporated in the heat of Mulder's confession, and he found himself kissing the other man tenderly on the cheek, thinking he would like to continue this conversation, preferably in bed, preferably naked, but...

"Let's go, Fox, and I'll show them who's with handsome."

Fox basked in the glow of Walter's smile as they exited the vehicle and walked around to the front of the building.

*****

They had to sign in and pay a cover charge at the front door. Fox did this for them, while Walter read the signs on the walls of the foyer proclaiming this a gay space with discretion assured. There were also ads for drag shows and workshops that were taking place in the weeks to come, but Walter's eyes kept going back to the disclaimer of privacy, and he was soothed by it.

The automatic door lock buzzed as the girl at the front door unlocked it for them, and Fox opened the door, holding it for Walter, who took a moment to glance at the guest book before entering the nightclub. Once inside, he turned to Fox with a cynical grin.

"I always thought if we hyphenated, my name would go first."

Fox had signed them in as C. and J. Mulder-Skinner. A concession to discretion coupled with a blatant display of their relationship.

"Alphabetical order, Walter. It's what keeps the world revolving."

"So, I'll order my scotch before your vodka."

They walked up a short flight of stairs, hearing the bass thump of dance music growing louder as they went deeper into the building. Walter wasn't sure if he liked it, but Fox was growing more animated as the sound increased, and he took Walter's hand as they entered a large dark room.

Dark, that is, except for the multi-coloured lights illuminating a large dance floor crowded with sweaty men and women writhing and jumping to the music. Booths lined one side of the dance floor, and were crowded with more people. The bar itself was at the back of the room, a long angled affair with a serving and bussing area at one end, and a line of barstools across the front. About half of these were occupied with men sipping drinks, talking animatedly (the only way one could talk and hear oneself above the din), and watching the dance floor.

Walter made a beeline for the bar, his hand still clutched in Mulder's, so he wound up nearly dragging the younger man along with him. Fox couldn't keep his eyes off the dance floor, and, as they waited in the short lineup for their drinks, Walter couldn't keep his eyes off Fox.

Mulder was tapping his foot, not impatiently, but rather, almost in time to the music. His eyes darted around the room, wide and excited, looking at the lights, the colours (the ones he could distinguish, anyway), and the people. He kept a firm grip on Walter's hand.

They reached the front of the line, and a slight, bespectacled man in a white t-shirt and jeans read Walter's lips as he attempted to order their drinks over the music. In short order he had a rocks tumbler choked with scotch and ice and a tall glass of double vodka-orange in front of him, and he yelled out a price that Walter couldn't hear. He let go of Fox's hand and reached into his back pocket for his wallet, offering the bartender a large bill, assuming it was enough. When he received his change, he threw a generous tip into a fishbowl next to the till, and was given a shy, almost flirtatious smile for his troubles. He smiled back, albeit a bit tightly, then picked up the drinks and handed the screwdriver to Fox. They stepped away from the serving area and found two empty barstools.

Walter immediately sat down, feeling a little out of his depth, and took a sip of his scotch, wrinkling his nose at the less than perfect blend that must be the house brand. He resolved to find out if they had Glenfiddich before ordering again.

Fox stood next to him, holding his cocktail but not drinking it. He shifted idly from foot to foot, keeping a restless beat, watching the dance floor. One arm slipped around Walter's shoulder, one hand rested on the back of his neck. Walter reciprocated with an arm around the younger man's waist, relishing the public display of affection more than he thought he would.

They stayed that way for several minutes, quietly enjoying each other's company, oblivious to the looks they were getting from some of the women and most of the men. After a while, one man approached them. He was dark-haired and dark-eyed, young and smiled charmingly at them both, then turned his attention to Fox.

"Dance?" he had to yell to be heard.

Fox smiled, almost nodded, then shook his head and replied "Maybe later."

The other man shrugged to show no hard feelings, and walked away.

Walter finished his drink. He set his empty glass on the bar behind him without looking, then used both hands to pull Fox into an embrace, so that he was now standing in between Walter's legs with his back to him. He kept his arms around his waist and rested his head on his shoulder. He felt rather than heard Fox sigh contentedly. He put his mouth close to his ear and said, "You can dance if you want to."

"I'm just fine, Walter," Fox turned his head so the other man could hear him.

"Just letting you know."

The bartender tapped Walter on the shoulder, and he reluctantly let loose of Fox to spin on the barstool and face the bar. Using a kind of sign language that would have made Marlee Matlin's head explode, Walter indicated that the bartender should pour him a shot of Glenfiddich, or risk his uber-surly wrath. An extra generous portion of scotch earned the bartender an extra generous tip, and Walter turned back to his lover, who had moved slightly forward, towards the dance floor. He had barely touched his drink.

Walter touched his back, lightly, but Fox startled just the same, then turned to him with a smile.

"I know this song," he said brightly.

"Go dance."

"Come with me." Fox held out his hand. Walter smiled but shook his head.

"I dance like Frohicke fucks, hon: not very often and not very well."

Fox laughed loud enough for the bartender to look up from the dishwasher full of shooter glasses that he was emptying.

"Go. I'll keep your seat warm." As he said this, Walter brushed his hand across Fox's butt, softly but with a certain proprietous air that made Fox shiver. He shook it off and set his drink on the bar, looked Walter square in the eye, making sure that this was perfectly okay with him. After all, it had been his idea to come here, and he didn't want Walter thinking he was abandoning him. That made him smile-the thought of Fox Mulder, king of abandonment issues, worrying about leaving someone else.

Walter gave him an inappropriate kiss on the nose, then gently pushed him towards the dance floor.

*****

Fox Mulder was never going to win any dance contests. He was no Fred Astaire; he wasn't even a passable Ginger. What he was, though, was utterly absorbed in the task at hand, and it gave him an edge.

He listened to music the way he profiled criminals. He found every detail in the song, every hidden nuance, every note, every beat. He paid attention. And remembered everything he found. Then he turned his body to what he learned.

He didn't follow a set pattern. He followed his intuition. He let the music tell him how to move, when to move, where to move. Walter watched him intently, and watched others watching him too.

Walter had heard once that to know how a person was in bed, you only had to watch them dance. In this case, that bit of folklore was one hundred percent accurate. Fox was all sinuous curves, gentle thrusts and fluid motion. He seemed oblivious to the people dancing around him, and Walter smiled, knowing exactly how self-absorbed his lover could be when focused on something that was important to him, something that he enjoyed.

Walter swirled the last few ice cubes around the last bit of scotch in his glass, still watching Fox dance, and was surprised to discover that he was actually enjoying himself. He wondered if he should have another drink, then, looking up and noticing Fox walking off the dance floor towards him, he chose instead to order two bottles of water.

Timing is everything, he thought, as he held out one bottle to Fox, who took it with a grateful smile. His skin shone with perspiration and his hair was slightly damp. He took a long swallow of designer H2O, then set the bottle down on the bar and peeled off his sweater.

The bar was loud enough to mask Walter's audible intake of air, but Fox certainly didn't miss the way his lover's eyes roamed over his body; the room suddenly felt warmer, and he reached for his water.

Walter looked at Fox, now wearing just the sleeveless t-shirt and jeans, and relished the way the damp cotton shirt clung like a second skin to Fox's lean though muscular torso. He had a sudden urge to reach out and claim that chest, with hands and mouth, and he felt the first stirrings of arousal, making his pants suddenly feel too tight, in a maddenly itching sort of way.

Out of the crowd, the dark-eyed boy who had approached Fox previously was back. He grinned again at the two men, then turned exclusively to Fox.

"How 'bout that dance now?" he inquired loudly. With a nod and a smile, Fox handed his now empty water bottle and sweater to Walter, and followed the younger man back out to the dance floor. Walter took a long moment to appreciate the fact that his lover looked just as good going as coming, letting his eyes rest on the other man's buttocks for just long enough that Fox looked back. The dance lights prevented Walter from noticing the flush in Fox's cheeks. He fell back into the music with all the abandonment he'd shown earlier, and Walter was left to watch again, his own drink forgotten as he quenched a thirst of a different sort. He held Fox's damp sweater to his chest where the scent of his lover could just reach his nose, and felt the heat inside him rise another notch.

As the high-energy song that Fox and the young man were dancing to moved to it's conclusion, the deejay skillfully mixed into the next song, this one less frantic, more funky, and the dancers on the floor changed their moves accordingly, becoming less about arms and legs and more about hips and shoulders.

Walter appreciated his lover's frankly sexual moves on the dance floor, then noticed that someone else was appreciating them, too. The boy dancing with Fox was moving closer and closer to the other man, but Fox had his eyes closed, totally absorbed in the music, and was oblivious to the moves of his dance partner.

Walter thought now that maybe this had been a bad idea. That maybe he had been wrong in agreeing to come here tonight. He thought this might get ugly.

These thoughts passed through Walter's mind in less time than it takes to tell, and he shook them off easily. He knew what he had to do, and he thought he just might be able to do it. Hell, he was on vacation, after all.

He stood, straightened out an invisible crease in his pants, then, still holding Fox's sweater in one hand, strode purposefully out onto the dance floor.

The other patrons afforded him wide berth, seeing the intense focus in his eyes, not to mention the sheer muscle mass he carried with him. The rude looks he might have gotten for bullying his way so brazenly across the floor melted quickly into appreciative glances at his chest, his crotch, his ass. Not his face, though-anyone could see he was a man on a mission, and had no time for eye contact.

In a moment he was standing beside the boy who was attempting to make physical contact with his lover. With one great paw of a hand to the shoulder, he set the boy aside, gently though, and gave him a smile to show that, while there were no hard feelings, the man dancing with him was definitely not up for grabs, not even little ones. The young man merely shrugged and turned, still dancing, now perusing the crowd for another likely target.

Walter watched Fox's hips for just a moment to note their movement, then stepped boldly into his lover's space, thrusting his body forward so they were touching each other leg to leg, groin to groin, chest to chest. Fox's eyes flew open, and Walter gave him a hard grin, looking deep into his hazel eyes before wrapping an iron-strong arm around his neck and turning his face to the side with one large hand. He then swooped down on Fox's ear, nipping at the lobe, then scouring the shell of it with his tongue-gently, but with a great sense of ownership. Lastly he found the ultra-sensitive skin just behind his ear and nuzzled softly there with lips and teeth.

Fox was awash in sensation. The bass-heavy music, the suddenness of Walter's attack on his body, the heat of the nightclub, all combined to seduce his senses, and he felt himself growing hard. He was overwhelmed by Walter's strength, unable to pull away, not that he wanted to, as Walter ground their hips together, surprisingly still to the beat of the music, and continued to torture his neck and ear in a way that he knew Fox loved. The younger man felt his heart start to hammer in his chest, and his breathing quickened.

Walter whispered in his ear, "Let's go."

He got no argument as he led a dazed and highly aroused Fox Mulder off the dance floor.

 

to be continued...in the Return to Innocence.

Copyright 2000 Michele. All rights reserved. I went to law school.

 

* * *

 

Title: Return to Innocence  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Spoilers: nada  
Rating: NC-17 bordering on R  
Beta: none, but feel free, I'll take all suggestions  
Disclaimer: Boring but necessary disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised  
Feedback: Please, lots,   
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Summary: a slashy sequel of sorts-Fox and Walter's mood music, side 2 track 2-makes more sense if you read Careless Whisper first, although you don't have to.

* * *

"Just believe in destiny  
Don't care what people say  
Just follow your own way  
Don't give up and miss the chance  
To return to innocence."  
-Enigma  
"Return to Innocence"

As I lie here on the verge of sleep, I can't help but marvel at the strange and wonderful twists and turns my life has taken. A long and odd road that has brought me to a destination I never would have dreamt, never could have imagined.

The man beside me sighs in his sleep and rolls towards me, flinging one arm across my chest. I take his hand and bring it to my lips, and he sighs again but doesn't wake. I press both our hands back to my chest, over my heart, and let images of the last few hours flit through my mind as the call of sleep beckons and my eyes slip closed.

\--------------------

It had already been a night of new experiences, strange events, and I didn't even hesitate when I saw the sign proclaiming vacancies at the E. and P. Motel. I knew I had desires this night, lots of them, but not one of them involved setting up a tent trailer.

I stopped the car and glanced over at Fox, who was looking back at me with smoldering intent.

"Stay here." I left him in the car and wasted no time in procuring a room, almost laughing at the way the night clerk was unobtrusively trying to see out the window and into the car, trying to find out what one balding, myopic old man might have picked up. I interrupted his scrutiny with a request, using my best authoritarian tone to keep any snide comments firmly in the back of his mind. Obviously, I wasn't the first person to ever find myself in such a predicament, and for a few dollars more tacked onto the bill, he handed me a packet that I shoved into the pocket of my pants. Then, keys in hand I went back to the car, and opened the passenger door, holding out my hand.

"Such a gentleman." Fox murmured.

"For now," I replied just as softly, which earned me a raised eyebrow but no comment as I took his hand and led him away from the car, up a flight of outdoor stairs, to room 224. I released my grip on him and let myself into the room, ignoring the lightswitch to my right, stepping forward a bit, and then turning around as Fox walked in behind me.

As soon as he was clear of the door, I reached around him and slammed it shut, then pushed him up against it, hard, and took his mouth with mine. A mew of surprise turned into a gasp as I forced my tongue past lips and teeth, plundering his mouth with reckless abandon, relishing the taste of him. I plunged my hands into his thick soft hair, holding his mouth firmly to mine, using my body to hold the rest of him.

He wasn't idle. His hands wandered busily up and down my back, provoking a shiver as he played a delicate scale up my spine. Then he wrapped them round my neck, apparently holding on for dear life. I felt warm fingers tracing the base of my skull, and I shivered again.

Deciding it was definitely an alpha male kind of night for me, and not wanting him to be able to distract me from my ultimate goal of fucking him stupid, I let go of his head and reached behind me for his hands. Grabbing him by his slender wrists, I slapped them up above his head, holding them in place with one hand while pushing and pulling at his t-shirt, finally getting it untucked from his pants and shoving it up almost to his neck.

I brushed my clothed chest against his bare one for a moment, relishing the whimpering noise he made against my mouth, and the futile struggling of his arms. Then I abandoned his mouth and swooped down on his body, nipping and licking at his chest in a way I knew he liked. He groaned and shifted his hips and tried to twist out of my grip. I took one perfect nipple in my mouth and suckled, then bit, then licked, and he groaned again, louder this time. When I thought he might actually loose himself from my restraint because of this, I switched to the other side, soon raising that nipple to a hard red nub as well, and I could feel his desire growing.

I stroked him through the material of his jeans and returned to his face, using the same suck, bite, lick technique on his mouth, his ears, his throat.

"Oh, Christ..."

I pulled back and smiled at him.

"You look troubled, my son,"

I spun him around with a suddenness that startled him, and pushed him back towards the bed, falling with him when the backs of his knees connected with the mattress, but catching myself with most of my weight on my arms so as not to crush him. At least, not yet.

I resumed kissing him, holding his arms above his head again, matching his thrashing movements and laboured breathing with my own, meeting desire with desire, but holding back, wanting to stay in control, wanting him to lose control, knowing he would and loving that knowledge, loving him...

I sat up, straddling his hips, gently thrusting forward as I peeled his shirt over his head and threw it behind me. This feat was cause for a celebration, including feasting on the bare flesh of his chest and stomach, sliding back across his crotch so I could reach his navel with my tongue, tasting him there, then sliding forward again to catch the ensuing yelp on my tongue. I kept my hands busy running up and down the length of that lean swimmer's body, scoring his ribs lightly with my nails, then feeling his abdominals contract as his back arched and he bucked his hips. He clutched at the bedspread and moaned incoherently.

I moved further down the bed, still straddling him, now at his knees, and reached for the zipper of his pants. Despite what the movies tell you, jeans never come off in one quick motion, and it took some half-skillful half-clumsy maneuvering on both our parts to relieve him of the rest of his clothes, which I also launched into the air, for once not giving a rat's ass if they were folded neatly or not. My need for him was almost overwhelming, and I attacked his mouth again, which by this time was kiss swollen, and my enthusiasm made him whimper. Or maybe it was the rough drag of my cotton pants across his now naked erection. Whatever.

He reached up and pulled off my glasses, folded down the earpiece and managed to set them on the bedside table without losing contact with my mouth. Then he cupped the back of my head with his big hands, kissing me back, giving as good as he got, and my heart rate soared dangerously.

I sat up again, this time leaning back on his thighs, and pulled my shirt over my head. I felt more than heard him gasp, and his hips pumped double time. I laughed and aimed the shirt in the general direction his clothes had gone, then pushed away his hands with a mock growl as he fumbled with the zipper of my pants. I kissed him again as I firmly placed his hands above his head, then slipped down his body, just to hear that whimpering noise again, and stood, somewhat unsteadily, to take off the rest of my clothes. I pulled the condom and lube I had received from the manager from the pocket of my pants, threw them on the nightstand, then let the pants fall with a jangle of keys and pocket change, stepping lightly out of them, out of my briefs, out of my socks. So maybe sometimes life does grant you that one movie moment.

I lied down beside Fox on the bed and pulled him into a rough embrace, wrapping my arms around his back and entwining my legs with his longer ones. Slowly I began thrusting my hips forward and rocking him in towards me at the same time, while I latched onto his throat with my mouth, sucking at his Adam's apple, knowing it would leave a mark, knowing, but not caring. I felt his quickening pulse with my lips and tasted the vibration of what might have been a purr with my tongue, then pushed him away so suddenly that he cried out in dismay and tried to scramble back into my arms.

Holding him firmly on his back, I blazed a trail of wet kisses down his torso, pausing to lick circles around his navel because I knew it made him crazy, then going lower, pushing his legs apart enough to lick at the crease where leg met body.

He pushed at my shoulders, causing me to start and turn to face him, questioning his actions, especially in light of my own mounting desire.

"Wait...I'm-wait-" he gasped, struggling to sit up.

I cocked my head to one side and stared at him quizzically, noting with some pleasure his disheveled state, clear even though the only light available was a combination of parking lot lights and the moon, streaking through the half closed blinds on the window. Fox's chest was fairly heaving as he struggled for air, and he looked at me with eyes shiny, half-dazed, beseeching.

I gave him a hard, sunny grin.

"Mmm, no."

And pounced on him, pushing him onto his back, pushing his legs apart, pushing my tongue into his mouth. I wrapped one hand in his hair, and reached over to the bedstand with the other, moving faster and a little clumsier as I felt a growing dampness between us. I pulled away, leaving him writhing, eyes closed, mouth moving but no words forming, and knelt between his legs. I tore open both packets, sheathed myself, and then gently prepared him, touching and stroking and stretching until he was thrusting helplessly, moaning and begging.

He cried out when I entered him, and I feared that I had moved too fast, so I stopped, leaned forward, and pulled him up so his weight was on my arm instead of the bed.

"Shhh...just relax...." I stroked his abdomen softly, still not moving, letting him adjust, and soon enough he opened his eyes just halfway, smiled and whispered,

"Let's dance."

I tried to go slow, tried to make it last, but growing need on both our parts sped our movements until we were both overwhelmed, him first, then me, needing only the tightening of his muscles and the sound of his cries to tip me over the edge.

We lay together a long time, both breathing hard, our sweat soaked bodies pressed together. I kissed and bit at his shoulder, loving the way it made him shiver, and he ran his hands up and down my back, playing those scales on my spine again.

At long last I hugged him then pulled away slowly, holding myself until I could stand, barely managing not to stagger to the bathroom, where I cleaned myself, then ran warm water over a cloth for him.

He hadn't moved when I walked back to the bed, and I thought he had fallen asleep, but his eyes were open and he smiled a goofy grin as I ran the damp cloth over his chest, stomach and crotch. This last made him groan and raise his hips, but half-heartedly.

"Oh, god..." he murmured

"I thought I was Jesus," I replied lightly, tossing the cloth in the general direction of the bathroom.

"I think I'm paralyzed..."

I laughed and pulled the bedspread out from under him like David Copperfield playing with a table setting. I threw it to the floor, then yanked the rest of the bedding out from under him just enough to pull back over us as I slid into the bed next to him.

I held the clock up close to my face, not wanting to put on my glasses, and figured out how to set the alarm. Putting it back down on the table, I turned and spooned up behind my lover, insinuating one leg between his and wrapping my arms around him so my hands lay splayed across his chest. He stroked my forearms absently and I licked and nuzzled the nape of his neck.

"We should go dancing more often," he ventured, sounding sleepy.

"As long as you remember who leads."

"Always..." his voice trailed off.

\--------------------

The last thing Walter Skinner heard before sleep was the sound of his name being murmured into his chest.

 

Copyright 2000 Michele. All rights reserved. I went to law school.

 

* * *

 

Title: Lean On Me  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Spoilers: Redux II (like we all haven't done this one...)  
Rating: NC-17 just because it's boy angst.  
Beta: none, but feel free, I'll take all suggestions  
Disclaimer: Boring but necessary disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised  
Additional disclaimer: Walt Whitman's poem reprinted here without permission.  
Feedback: Please, lots,   
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Summary: Hello, angst-philes, I'm ba-a-ack...Ya gotta love a man who cries on cue. And I can't believe the UST in Redux II-watch that "outside Scully's room" scene once or twice, and you will see that the truth is "OUT" there! Really, Walter, what are you looking at? Fox and Walter's mood music, side 2 track 3.

* * *

"Please, swallow your pride  
If I have strength you need to borrow  
For no one can fill those of your needs  
That you won't let show."  
-Bill Withers  
"Lean On Me"

Walter Skinner felt like a dirty old man. He was trying to have a coherent conversation with Fox Mulder about the insanity currently reigning at the bureau, about Blevins, the Cancerman, and Scully, and he couldn't stop staring down at the other man's crotch.

Mulder didn't seem to notice, though. He was off in a world of his own, his replies to Skinner's comments barely audible and spoken in an almost defeated monotone that tore at Walter's heart. If he hadn't already been half in love with the younger man, the raw neediness in Fox's tone surely would have tipped him over the edge.

For Walter Skinner was a man who needed to be needed. He wasn't a top, a dom, or a master, he was just a man to whom caring and nurturing, despite his surly exterior, were second nature, much like breathing. He always tried to do his best by the people in his life, sometimes failing, but always giving an honest 100 percent. Even in Vietnam, even with Sharon.

But now he felt like a dirty old man.

He hadn't been able to help Mulder this time. All he could do was sit by and watch, and wait. He had been too late to discover what Roush was all about, too late to find Cancerman, or save him, or kill him himself.

He hadn't been able to help Scully either, despite dirtying his hands at the whim of a conspiracy he barely accepted as existing, let alone understood.

"Not everything," Mulder was suddenly smiling at him, and he pulled his gaze up to the younger man's face, noting that even his smile looked tired and forlorn, and wanting nothing more than to take him in his arms.

Then Mulder told him about Scully's remission. He was stunned. Had it been natural? Or had some good come of all the pain? Had he done the right thing? Had Mulder done something? His head reeled for a moment.

"Can I see her?'

Skinner didn't know if Mulder's reply was sincere or sarcastic, but he knew that he cared for Scully enough to try and mend some of the damage done recently by their mutual lies and their carefully concealed-from-each-other feelings for Mulder.

When she gave him a tentative smile, he returned it, knowing they would both have to talk about it, soon, when she was stronger. In the meantime he turned on his not inconsiderable charm, greeting the priest with quiet respect, speaking deferentially to Scully's mother and brother, and asking gentle questions of the good doctor herself, to determine what had caused this minor miracle (She had no idea). He didn't mention her weakened state, or the factors that had caused them-work, the X-Files in particular, and her partner.

She brought his name up first. He was standing close to the bed, and she reached one tiny hand out to grasp his large one.

"Sir, Mulder's been here since the meeting. He's exhausted."

"So are you, Agent Scully. You should be resting. I'll go-"

She squeezed his hand firmly, capturing his attention completely, and in a surprisingly strong voice for one who had so recently hovered so near death, said, "He needs to go home and he needs to get some sleep. Could you make sure for me...sir?" She arched one delicate eyebrow as she emphasized both the word need and the word sir.

That dirty old man feeling was creeping up on him again.

"Please. For me. For him."

That tentative smile again, and more pressure on his hand, blue eyes seeming to look right into him, into his mind and his heart, reading the feelings there, accepting them, and then demanding that he act on them.

He let go of her hand and gently brushed at the gold crucifix dangling just below the hollow of her throat.

"You're Catholic," he whispered, not as an accusation, but almost like he was changing the subject. They both knew what he was thinking.

"Sir, faith demands belief and acceptance, not stupidity and intolerance. Please..." This last was barely a whisper as her strength seemed to fail and she lay back on the bed. Her mother stepped forward immediately, concerned, and Skinner saw storm clouds brewing in Bill Scully's eyes.

"Thank you, Agent Scully. You just worry about getting better-I'll worry about your partner." They shared a secret smile, then he turned, made his good-byes to the family, and walked out of the room, feeling less the pederast and more the white knight.

Fox Mulder hadn't moved from the hard plastic chair outside his partner's room. He had, however, slumped forward, and Skinner saw that he was holding the picture he had given him. His shoulders were shaking slightly, and Skinner knew he was crying.

"Mulder..." He wasn't sure what to say.

Mulder looked up, startled. His eyes were wet but no tears had fallen. Skinner saw a drop of blood on his lower lip, and realized that Mulder had bitten it, and bitten it hard, to keep those tears at bay.

"Sir?" He seemed surprised to see Skinner, as though he had forgotten that the other man was there, as though he had forgotten where he was himself.

"Mulder," This time the words came easy, the unshed tears of his agent, coupled with his partner's quiet request giving him strength of conviction. "Agent Scully needs to rest. She wants to see you tomorrow, but asked me to make sure you went home and got some sleep tonight."

"Scully-I should-I could-uh..." He shook his head, looking more confused and miserable as the words trailed away. Skinner walked over to him and held out his hand.

"Come on, Mulder, I'll drive you home."

"I, uh, I have my car." There was no conviction in his tone. He put his hand in Skinner's but didn't stand.

"You also have a partner who will have my ass in a sling if I let you drive. You've been going on nothing but adrenaline for how long now? Let me help you." Skinner tugged slightly on his hand, trying to get him moving. Mulder was worrying at his lip again, and Skinner wished he could put his lips on that sore red mouth and make it better.

"I don't need help." His eyes beseeched Skinner to give him the lie. Skinner refused.

"We all need help once in a while, Agent Mulder. I can be more than just your boss, if you'll let me. I told you to remember who your friends are. Tonight, I am your friend. Come on."

Mulder acquiesced with no more fuss. He allowed Skinner to pull him to his feet and hand him his coat. He slipped on the jacket, then with one last grief-stricken look at the blood spattered photo of himself and his sister, he tucked it away in the inside pocket. He held up a hand to Skinner, then turned and pushed open Scully's door, poking his head in but not entering.

Bill Scully shot him a dirty look, which he ignored, and Mrs. Scully gave him a careworn glance, but it was the tiny smile and nearly imperceptible nod from his partner that convinced him not to spend the rest of the night in the waiting room. He boxed up his pain into the corner of his heart reserved for it, returned her nod, and let the door close.

Skinner was waiting a discreet distance away, and didn't speak as Mulder walked away from Scully's room. He simply fell into step with Mulder as he continued on towards the exit, matching his pace to the younger man's, and followed him out of the hospital.

Skinner led Mulder to his car, opened the passenger side door for him, then walked around to the driver's side and let himself in. He turned to look at the younger man as he started the car's ignition.

Mulder was staring straight ahead, but seeing nothing. He was rubbing absently at his lower lip with one hand, while the other hand was resting on his thigh, clenched into a tight fist.

Skinner reached over and squeezed the back of his neck, lightly. Mulder jumped, then turned wary eyes on his boss. Skinner simply put the car in gear and pulled out of the parking lot.

They didn't speak during the drive, and Skinner found the silence awkward. He kept opening his mouth to fill the empty air with mindless inanities about how it would be all right and how everything would work out fine. Then he would glance over at the man next to him, at the red eyes and the shredded lower lip, the bunched muscles in the neck and clenched fists, and he would close his mouth, knowing his words would be useless.

When they pulled up in front of Mulder's building, Skinner turned off the car. He turned to the other man, and they spoke at the same time:

"Sir-"

"Mulder-"

Skinner gave him a nod.

"Would you like to come up for a drink? I mean, I was going to have one anyway, and they say drinking alone is the first sign of addiction." Mulder didn't look at the older man as he spoke, and something like embarrassment made his words sound a little gruff.

"I think a drink sounds like just about the best thing in the world right now." Skinner reached over and brushed his fingers across Mulder's cheek, getting that startled look again.

They got out of the car and entered the building.

In the elevator, Skinner barely managed to keep his face neutral as Mulder, standing next to him, leaned in just enough that their shoulders brushed.

On the fourth floor, Mulder stopped at the door of his apartment and stared stupidly at the police tape barricading the entrance. Skinner stared too, for a moment, having forgotten that Mulder's apartment was a crime scene.

"Aw, hell..." Mulder's voice was barely above a whisper, but the crack of his fist on the wood door was startling loud. He hit the door again, and again.

Skinner grabbed his arms before he could strike again, and Mulder fell forward onto Skinner's chest, catching the older man off-guard and almost knocking him to the floor. Skinner recovered quickly, though, and wrapped strong arms around the other man, holding him tightly.

"Mulder, shhh...it's all right...shhh..." Now all the inanities of earlier tripped over his tongue easily, feeling more right and less like bad cliches. It seemed to be what Mulder needed right at the moment, and Skinner was only too willing to provide, only wishing in the back of his mind that he didn't have to.

After a time, Mulder pulled away, and Skinner was surprised to see that his eyes were still dry. He knew that there was still an emotional storm brewing, and he only hoped that when it came, Mulder would let him be his shelter from it.

"I'm sorry, sir, I truly am. I totally forgot. I guess I should find a hotel..."

"It's all right, Mulder. You've certainly earned the right to forget about this-" He waved in the general direction of the door. "I think we all have. But forget about the hotel." He noticed that he still had one hand on Mulder, just touching his arm, but, as Mulder didn't appear to be uncomfortable with this, or even to be noticing, he chose to ignore the implications and continued speaking. "I can guarantee I have a better stocked bar than any hotel, and I won't charge you twenty dollars for an airplane bottle of scotch, either. Hell, I may even have some of those complimentary ten dollar almonds."

This earned him a ghost of a smile that turned up one side of Mulder's mouth but failed to touch his eyes, which were still large and dark and filled with pain.

"What about the Famous Amos cookies?"

Skinner smiled back at his agent.

"I'll see what I can do."

The drive to Skinner's apartment was less awkward, though certainly not cozy. Neither man was ready to discuss the feelings that were floating between the two of them. Neither man wanted to talk about the events of the past three days in any detail, either. It was still too fresh, too raw, and, while Skinner was more than a little interested in the manner in which Mulder had arrived in the emotional state he was now in, and what part he may or may have not played in it, he was also aware of the younger man's vulnerability right now, and felt he had no right to push anything. The words would come when they were good and ready, and when they did, Skinner promised himself he'd be there.

So when Mulder ventured a quiet question about the Redskins chances this year, Skinner gave him an understanding smile and gave his opinion on the team. They felt there way around different sports, then movies (they had nothing in common there), and then books. Mulder mentioned some authors that Skinner was unfamiliar with, then poets, including Whitman. He was more than a little startled when Skinner recited a line from Calamus:

"Whoever you are holding me now in hand  
Without one thing all will be useless  
I give you fair warning before you attempt me further,  
I am not what you supposed, but far different."

"Leaves of Grass," said Mulder.

"I have a soft spot for Whitman," replied Skinner.

"So do I." Mulder's voice was quiet, and they didn't speak again until they reached Skinner's apartment building.

"Really, sir, you don't need to go out of your way for me. I'm sure-"

"I'm sure, too. Let me do this for you, Mulder." Skinner shut off the car and opened his door. He didn't look back to see if Mulder was following, just hoped that he was, and they entered the elevator together. This time when Mulder leaned into him, Skinner put a casual arm around his shoulders. He felt the other man tense under his grip, but Mulder didn't move away.

Skinner opened the door of his apartment, hit the light switches by the door, then closed and locked the door behind Mulder as he entered.

Mulder had been to Skinner's apartment before, but never as an invited guest, and he felt strange and awkward. He stepped forward into the living room, then just stood, looking around at the art on the walls, the furniture, the entertainment system, anywhere, actually, except at the man who owned said art, furniture and entertainment system.

Skinner dumped keys, change, badge and gun onto a small table by the door obviously put there just for that purpose, then slipped off his trenchcoat and suit coat. He folded them over one arm and approached Mulder.

"Can I take your coat?"

Mulder didn't reply, merely shrugged out of the suit jacket and handed it to his boss. Skinner put it over his own and said, "Make yourself comfortable, Mulder, while I hang these up. Bar's just over there, if you want, or I'll get us something in just a minute." He walked off down a short hallway to hang the coats in the closet, and Mulder turned to the bar.

He was still standing in front of the large selection of liquors when Skinner came back. He didn't look up at the older man's approach, didn't move when Skinner put a hand gently on his back.

"What looks good?" he asked quietly.

Mulder shrugged. "I don't drink."

Skinner nodded, and ignored this statement. "Well, I'm a scotch man myself. What would you be having if we were at your place?"

The question seemed to mystify Mulder for a minute, but Skinner didn't push him, and, after a bit, the reply came.

"All I had at home was coffee and orange juice, sir. I don't know what I was thinking, offering when I-"

"That's all right, Mulder. We're here now. Did you want to try a scotch with me?" He didn't wait for a reply, merely reached in front of the other man and pulled a bottle of Ballantynes off the shelf. He took it to the kitchen, and, when he returned to the living room a few minutes later with two ice-choked crystal tumblers of scotch, he saw that Mulder hadn't moved.

Skinner sat down on the couch, set the drinks onto coasters on the coffee table, and cleared his throat loudly.

Mulder spun around clumsily, startled, and Skinner wondered for just a second about the life that had shaped the man standing before him. The man who was so full of sadness that it affected everything he did, everything he said. He wondered what could make Mulder happy. He wondered if he could. He doubted it.

"Have a seat," he said.

The look Mulder gave him was an odd combination of suspicion and gratitude. But he moved forward and gracelessly fell onto the couch next to Skinner, who handed him one of the glasses.

"To Scully's return to health," Skinner held his glass up.

Almost a smile. At the last minute, some unknown guilt, or grief, or pain dulled the happiness Mulder felt knowing that Scully was going to be all right, but he raised his glass anyway and admired the sound it made as Skinner touched his own glass to it. Good crystal.

Skinner drank off perhaps half the shot he had poured himself, but when Mulder tried to mimic his actions, he found the liquor too strong and he coughed and sputtered, setting the glass down quickly and trying to shake away the taste.

At any other time, with any other person, Skinner would have been laughing. He had last seen the look on Mulder's face on a stray cat he had once seen getting caught in the automatic sprinkler system out front of his building.

"I guess it's an acquired taste, sir," Mulder finally gasped.

"Would you like something else? I could make coffee," Skinner offered.

"I don't want to be a bother."

This coming from the man who had faked his own death, convinced his partner to lie to her superiors about it, came back from the dead and accused the senior director of the Federal Bureau of Investigations of being part of a conspiracy to lie to the American people about the existence of extra-terrestrials, the results of which were lying in a hospital morgue right now, thought Skinner. Right; no bother.

"Not a problem, Mulder."

"Actually, this is fine." He picked up the glass a little warily, took a tiny sip, winced as the liquor burned over his hurt mouth, but didn't choke. "I'm acquiring a taste for it," he said dryly.

Skinner gave him a smile. "Whatever you like, Mulder..." Then, softer, "Whatever you need."

Mulder put his glass back down. He turned to face his boss, scrutinizing the older man's face with an intensity that Skinner was almost uncomfortable with. Almost. He took another sip of scotch and returned Mulder's gaze calmly.

When Mulder spoke, his voice was soft and almost without inflection. "I don't know what I need, sir. I thought I did, but now...with everything that's happened-that's happening...I-I-" His throat worked soundlessly, Adam's apple bobbing up and down and his face crumpled, revealing not the man, but the lost little boy within.

This is it, thought Skinner, and he put his glass down.

"Let it come, Mulder." And he held out his arms.

The first cry rose out of Mulder's throat like a living thing as he fell into Skinner's arms, nearly knocking the wind from the older man with the force of his embrace. Then muted sobs as he cried into the older man's chest, the tears finally spilling from bewildered hazel eyes.

Skinner could feel Mulder's face hot and damp against his shirt, but he didn't pull away. He held Mulder tight, one arm wrapped around his shoulders. He ran one hand through Mulder's hair, carding it again and again, crooning nonsensical syllables, trying to convey strength and security in every sound, every action. He could feel the muscles under Mulder's shirt trembling and jumping, and he squeezed harder, trying to stop the shuddering.

In some ways it was like comforting a small child, but Skinner was all too aware that this was a grown man in his arms-and not just any man. This was his underling, his agent, maybe his friend, definitely a man he was attracted to, and not just physically. Mulder was a brilliant man, a strong man, beautiful in a mental emotional way that Skinner could only liken to a dark hero in a gothic novel. A young Heathcliffe, brave but somehow doomed, maybe.

Or maybe not. Perhaps this was the first step in healing a lifetime of hurt. Skinner didn't know. He only knew that Mulder needed him and he needed Mulder. It was enough for now. There would be time enough in the future to decide where this was going, if anywhere, and time enough to manage the whens and the hows. Skinner would be patient. Mulder had certainly taught him that. Remember the past and take care of the present, and the future would certainly take care of itself.

Mulder's sobs were tapering off slowly, and he had straightened a bit, easing some of the weight off of Skinner. But his grip on the other man was still tight. Skinner just held him, continued petting him, kept whispering reassurances to him. He made no move to dislodge Mulder, and, after a long while, the younger man pulled back, still trembling, eyes wide and starey. He struggled to catch his breath, which hitched unevenly in his chest.

"I-I'm sorry, sir, I-"

Skinner silenced him with his hand, brushing it gently across his mouth.

"Don't apologize, Mulder. There's no need." He locked eyes with Mulder and held him with his gaze as he stood.

"Lie down here. I'll be right back."

Skinner went to the kitchen and pulled a large mug from a cupboard. He filled it half full with water from the tap, added an herbal teabag, and heated it quickly in the microwave. The steam held the scent of wild berries and chamomile, until Skinner poured a hefty dollop of scotch on top of it. Then he stirred in a couple of heaping spoonfuls of sugar, and took the concoction back to the living room.

Mulder was lying on his side, legs curled up nearly to his chest, as if he thought he could fold up and disappear. He was still trembling visibly, and he didn't look up as Skinner approached.

Skinner helped him to sit up, then handed him the cup, putting an arm around his shoulders.

"Drink this. It may taste like shit, but it'll help."

Mulder held the mug in both hands, sniffed at it, took a tentative sip, grimaced, then gave Skinner a look. Skinner nodded.

"Trust me," he said.

It took nearly half an hour for Mulder to finish half of the contents of the mug, and by then the shakes had abated considerably. He set the mug on the table and suddenly found himself yawning.

"Why don't you try to get some sleep, Mulder." It wasn't a question, and Skinner moved to rise up off the couch. Mulder caught his hand, surprising both of them.

"Stay." His voice was low and afraid.

"Whatever you need," Skinner said again. He sat back down and pulled Mulder's head into his lap, letting the younger man stretch out across the full length of the couch. He went back to playing with Mulder's soft, dark hair, and felt the tension bleeding off the younger man under his silent ministrations. He thought Mulder might even be falling asleep, when he heard him say:

"Sir, we need to talk about-about-"

"We'll talk in the morning, Mulder. Sleep."

There was no more conversation. Skinner held Mulder and sheltered him the best he could.

 

When Skinner woke up in the morning, his back was killing him, and Mulder was gone.

 

You have to love a good vignette. Always end 'em on a cliffhanger, I say. You can find the sequel, "I'll Be" back on the slash page, or just click here.

Copyright 2000 Michele. All rights reserved. I went to law school.

 

* * *

 

Title: I Wanna Come Over  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Spoilers: none  
Rating: NC-17  
Beta: none  
Disclaimer: Boring but necessary disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised  
Feedback: Oh, yah, I'm the original feedback whore!   
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Summary: H/C Fox and Walter's mood music, side 2 track 4. Special thanks to AnneZo, who is a dialogue goddess, and who inspired me to try a little something different with the way the boys talk to one another.  
WARNING: I posted this warning on egroups earlier, but it bears repeating. All writers please be advised that listening to any song by Matchbox 20 (most especially "Bent"), can be dangerous to your story. No matter what type of story you are writing, Rob Thomas' lyrics will immediately turn your smutty little PWP sex story into an angsty H/C piece, and there is nothing you can do about it! You have been warned!

* * *

"I wanna come over  
To hell with the consequence  
You told me you love me  
That's all I believe."  
-Melissa Etheridge  
"I Wanna Come Over"

"Skinner."

"We're back."

"Good. How did it go?"

"Can I come over?"

The tired question told Walter Skinner nearly everything he needed to know about the latest case his two wunderkind agents had been on. He shoved an errant thought of evil paperwork to the back of his mind.

"Do you need a ride?"

"Scully's driving. I'll get her to drop me off."

"All right."

"Walter...thanks."

The phone went dead in his ear. He glanced at his watch, did a quick calculation, and went upstairs to the bedroom.

Humming tunelessly, he stripped the bed and remade it with fresh sheets. He added a flannel blanket to the bed before covering the entire thing with a thick navy duvet.

Turning to the bureau, he opened the drawer that Mulder had adopted as his own, and rummaged through several pairs of boxer shorts, a few mismatched socks, and various and sundry sex toys until he found plaid pajama pants, which he tossed on the bed, along with a grey t-shirt and thick wool work socks.

He checked his watch again, then headed for the bathroom.

\---------------

He was seated on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, remote in hand, channel surfing lazily when he heard the soft knock on the door. He wondered for a moment about a man who had no qualms about breaking into defense department offices guarded by soldiers with standing orders to shoot first and ask questions later, but who would never walk into the one place he was most welcome without knocking first.

"It's open," he called out as he got to his feet.

He met his lover at the door, and for a moment they just looked at one another. Then Walter opened his arms and pulled Fox into a tight embrace.

"I'm glad you're here."

"I'm glad to be here."

Fox pulled away reluctantly, dropping kit and suitbag to the floor with a muffled "thud". Walter still held him, now at arm's length, and his concerned gaze fell on the disheveled, dirty hair, the dark circles under wide green/gold eyes, and the two butterfly stitches holding together a nasty cut on one cheek. He pulled him in for another hug, muttering, "You look like hell."

"Flattery'll get you nowhere, Walter."

"I know."

Again Fox pulled back, offering a tired smile. Walter took it and added it to the small but ever-growing collection of Muldersmiles in his memory, then gave his lover a kiss on his unhurt cheek.

"Go upstairs," he whispered.

"I'm tired."

"I know you are. Go upstairs."

Mulder gave him a sharp look, which he chose to ignore by turning the younger man towards the stairs and giving him a gentle shove.

"I'll be right up."

"I'll still be tired."

"I heard you the first time."

Fox took the stairs slowly, and Walter watched with concern. No matter what either one of them thought, neither one of them was going to see twenty again. He wondered briefly if he would ever be able to convince his lover to take a nice, quiet, safe desk job. Then, remembering the thrill with which Fox had greeted his occasional wiretap punishment jobs, Walter tossed away the thought, shaking his head at the insanity that would be trying to reign in Fox Mulder.

He took the stairs two at a time, and followed the trail of clothing to the bathroom, where he had run a terribly hot bathtub full of water just long enough ago that it was comfortably warm now. The main vanity lights were off, but the low watt warming lights above the tub were on, making the room dim, but not dark.

Fox was sitting hunched forward in the middle of the large clawfoot tub, arms wrapped tightly around his legs, head down, eyes closed.

"Hey." Walter announced his presence in the room.

"Hey," was the quiet response.

"Want me to wash your back?"

"Sure."

Walter knelt by the side of the tub and pulled a conveniently located loofah mitt over one hand. He squeezed some bath gel onto the mitt, dipped it into the hot water, and then stroked a soapy trail up Mulder's spine. He did it again with increased pressure, and his lover groaned.

"Too hard?" he asked.

"No. Feels good."

Walter soaped and massaged the younger man's whole back from neck to tailbone, and Fox wriggled his shoulders appreciatively. He spent long moments concentrating on Mulder's neck and shoulders, and slowly Fox stretched out his arms and legs as his muscles relaxed. Walter dragged the rough mitt down Mulder's side, then up again and over one arm. He worked on those muscles, too, rubbing out knots in biceps and triceps, first one arm, then the other. Working his way from the side of the tub to the back, he grasped Fox gently by his shoulders and pulled him away from the center of the tub, so that his back was snug against the end of the tub. He grabbed a towel from the pile sitting next to him and draped it over the edge of the tub, so that when Fox leaned his head back, his neck was softly supported.

Fox opened his eyes for a moment and gave his lover a lopsided grin.

"You had this planned." Closed his eyes again before getting the answer.

"Guilty." Walter turned his attention to Mulder's chest and stomach next, using the same rough, soapy motion he had used to undo the tension from the other man's back. Mulder shivered as he scratched the mitt over his nipples, down, and around his navel.

Walter bent down and kissed him.

"I'm still tired," Fox reminded him, not opening his eyes.

"Then let me do the work."

Walter rinsed off Mulder's chest, then petted and stroked his nipples again. A small sigh issued forth from his lover's mouth, and Walter kissed him again. Then he leaned forward, planted a small kiss on Mulder's shoulder, and reached under the water to grip his penis lightly.

"What-" Mulder's eyes flew open and he began to sit up. Walter pushed him back down.

"Shhh..."

The sensation was exquisite; rough and gentle, strong and soft, fast and slow. Everything else in Mulder's mind was forgotten as his perception narrowed to focus on the gloved hand stroking him, softly at first, then with more strength, the rough material of the loofah nearly overwhelming his senses.

It seemed to go on forever. Just as he felt himself nearing orgasm, the hand would slow, slow, almost stop, then resume. He whimpered and felt the hand quicken in response. His hips thrust helplessly upwards, and Walter sped up his ministrations. He groaned and Walter squeezed, then loosened his grip. Tight, loose, tight again, almost stopping, never stopping...

A last stroke and Mulder came with a shout, back arching, then fell back into the tub, splashing water over the side.

"Oh, god, Walter-"

Silenced with a kiss, Mulder tried to get his motor control back. Walter stood and stripped off the mitt.

"Don't forget to wash your hair," he teased as he turned to the door. Mulder's shaky voice stopped him and he turned back to his lover.

"Walter...thanks."

"Anytime. I'll be downstairs."

\---------------

Walter was back on the couch, watching the news and grumbling at the television when Fox came downstairs a few minutes later, wearing the soft plaid pants and t-shirt that Walter had left out for him. He looked up at his lover's approach.

"Hungry?"

"No."

"I ordered Thai."

Mulder responded by snuggling up to Walter on the couch, wriggling against his chest until his lover obligingly put a strong arm around him. Skinner held him tightly and dropped a kiss on his damp hair.

They watched the news in silence until the doorbell rang, heralding the arrival of dinner. Mulder sat up and Skinner slipped out from under him easily, pulling his wallet from his back pocket as he went to answer the door.

\---------------

Fox was lying stretched out across the full length of the couch when Walter returned to the living room with a large grease-spotted bag in one hand and two plates in the other. Not wanting to disturb the younger man, he instead sat on the floor, setting the bag on the coffee table. As he pulled styrofoam cartons, plastic packets of sauce and chopsticks out of the bag, he noticed that the television was no longer spouting gloom and doom about the world today, but was instead spotlighting the angst of some guitar-heavy rock band.

"There's a movie on channel 7"

"I like this song."

"You would."

He placed a variety of items on his plate, including small slices of vegetarian fresh rolls, and was not at all surprised when Mulder reached over his shoulder and plucked a piece off of his plate.

"I thought you weren't hungry."

"I'm not."

Fox made no move to fill his own plate, just continued taking bits of Namanhoi chicken and fresh rolls from Walter's. The older man indulged his lover discreetly, refilling his plate even when he was full, so that both of them ate enough.

Walter efficiently cleared away the remains of the meal, washed dishes and brewed tea, and found his lover asleep on the couch when he came back to the living room. He took the remote from Mulder's hand and shut off the television, then reached down and brushed his fingertips softly across the younger man's jaw, liking the scratchy feel of unshaven skin on his own.

"I'm sleeping." Fox kept his eyes closed and turned his face under Walter's hand like a cat.

"Why don't you go on up to bed?"

"I don't walk in my sleep."

"I could carry you."

"I'm awake now."

Fox didn't resist Walter's strong arms as he was helped to his feet. He swayed unsteadily for a moment, then gave his lover a hug, and a kiss that ended in a yawn.

"Bed."

"Yes, mom."

This comment earned him a frown, then a grin as Walter tried to imagine Teena Mulder giving her son a handjob in the bathtub. Mulder must have thought the same thing, for he laughed quietly, then reluctantly moved away from Walter, leaving the older man to take care of lights and locks as he ascended the stairs.

One small lamp on the nightstand was on and Mulder was fussing with the bedclothes when Walter entered the room.

"I must be the only person on the planet over the age of five who has a security blanket," he groused gently as he climbed into bed.

"Or needs one."

Walter stripped to his briefs, set his glasses on the dresser, and, as Fox shut out the light, felt his way across the room to slip into bed beside his lover.

"I think I'm supposed to resent the implication of that, but I'll let it slide, just for tonight." He sighed as Walter pulled the flannel blanket up over his shoulders, then tried for the nth time to actually burrow into his lover's chest. Walter pulled him into the crook of his arm, found his eyes in the dark, and asked very quietly,

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"You can read all about it on Monday."

"I know. Doesn't answer the question, though."

Fox turned away from the other man's gaze, absently stroked a hand across his chest.

"I don't think so."

"You can."

"I know."

There was a long silence, which Walter ended abruptly by kissing Mulder's hair and hugging him just a little tighter.

"Want to have breakfast at Pavlo's tomorrow? My treat."

"Pavlo's is a dive, Walter. A greasy spoon of the highest caliber. I once had my coffee wink at me there. And don't even get me started on the eggs..." His voice trailed off and the silence was cozy.

"I'd love to, Walter...thank you."

"Sleep."

"You, too."

Walter felt the other man's hand entwine with his and he smiled as he closed his eyes, satisfied that, while the war might still be going on, at least this battle had been won.

 

Copyright 2000 Michele. All rights reserved. I went to law school.

 

* * *

 

Title: Stand By Your Man  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Spoilers: Maybe a little dialogue snatching from "The Unnatural" and "Tooms"  
Rating: PG-13  
Beta: none, but I sure could use some input on this one, folks, it was a misery to put into words  
Disclaimer: Boring but necessary disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised  
Feedback: Oh, yah, I'm the original feedback whore!   
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Summary: Fox and Walter's mood music, side 2 track 5-and I promise, sex next time-this snippet just had to get out first.

* * *

"But if you love him, you'll forgive him  
Even though he's hard to understand.  
And if you love him, be proud of him,  
After all, he's just a man."  
  -Lyle Lovett  
  Stand By Your Man (OST: The Crying Game)

Special Agent Dana Scully walked into the office she shared with her partner, Special Agent Fox Mulder, just as said crackpot-albeit-brilliant partner was throwing a wastepaper basket across the room with all the force he could muster.

She crossed her arms and regarded him coolly from the doorway.

"I guess this means you're report for Skinner isn't quite finished."

"It's an important report, Scully," Mulder replied, sitting back down behind his desk and retrieving a pen. "If I don't frame the facts of this last case in just the right way, I can only imagine the consequences... official reprimand, possibly even censure-"

"A month of sleeping on the couch," Scully teased.

"I'm being serious." Mulder pouted for a moment, then slipped his glasses on and turned back to the papers on the desk.

Scully made her way across the room, stopped a moment to right the seriously dented trashcan, then walked around the desk to look at Mulder's report over his shoulder.

It would have been the ultimate act of kindness to call what he had written up a "rough draft". Only years of writing reports with her partner had given Scully the ability to decipher the nearly meaningless scrawl before her. Mostly point-form, words made up of alternating lower case and capital letters spelled out the story.

"Mulder, you might want to leave out the bit about the sea-monster eating your cel phone."

"But if I just say I dropped it in the lake, I'll look foolish," he replied.

She raised an eyebrow and gave him the silence that remark deserved.

"Okay, what if I just say something got my phone?"

"Better. Now what about the motel bill? How could you break the headboard on the bed when it was attached to the wall?" Somehow, Scully just knew that she didn't want to know.

"That was Walter's fault," was all he said; her imagination supplied the rest as she remembered that the damage to the bed had occurred before Mulder lost his phone. She had the good grace to blush, earning a lopsided grin from Mulder.

"Next." She hoped fervently that Mulder had had the good sense to hang on to the receipts for the dry-cleaning of his suit, the towing of the car, and, of course the uninsured hospital visit, short as it was.

"To hell with it," Mulder declared. "I know what happened out there, and you know it too, Scully. I'm going to type this up, hand it to the boss, and let the chips fall where they may."

"Are you sure, Mulder. I mean, I know we figured out what happened to those missing kids; we caught the guy red-handed, but..." She trailed off, not having to finish her thought. Mulder knew that this case had been trouble from the get-go, but there was nothing to be done about it now. The bills were due, and the report had to go in. Before he could answer her, she noticed something else about his notes.

"Mulder, there's no mention of your injury in here."

"I know."

"Why not? It has relevance in that it was the perp who injured you, the result being the car winding up up to it's bumpers in water, just moments before the thing with the phone."

"You're reaching, Scully. I was there, I know what happened, but I'll be damned if I'm going to try to weasel out of any of this by blaming our suspect, when it was-"

"You can not put a monster in this report." She cut him off firmly. "Skinner is going to nail us on this one already, without your theory on what lives in that lake."

"Can I just use something again?"

The phone rang, startling them both. When Mulder eyed it like it was a rattlesnake getting ready to strike, Scully answered it. Half a dozen 'yes, sir's later, she hung up.

"Walter?"

She nodded.

"Pissed?"

She nodded again, then, when his face fell dramatically, she said, "but not at us. At least, not yet."

"Okay, I give. What's up that he didn't have time to tear into you...or say hi to me?" He frowned at that last thought, then looked to her for the answer.

"He says he needs our reports in an hour. He'll go through them and call if he has any questions, but we're wanted for a Q and A from Violent Crimes. Seems our suspect was a travelling man, and VCU thinks they can pin several other similar murders on him."

"No meeting?"

Mulder didn't know whether to be relieved that Skinner would not be calling him on the carpet over this latest case, or disappointed that he wouldn't be seeing his lover.

"No meeting-not with us, anyway. He's meeting with the section chief, which I think has put him in a mood. I'd say we're getting off lucky. So, why don't you try and turn this-" Scully indicated the papers on the desk. "into something resembling an official report, I'll get Holly to make a copy of the autopsy and follow-up for our files, and we'll go for lunch in an hour."

"Fine. But not that health food place again," he replied.

"I like the burgers there." Scully protested.

"You would. How about Casey's?"

"Sure."

**********

Walter Skinner rubbed absently at a pain developing above his right eye as he re-read Fox Mulder's latest report and jotted down another note on the pad of paper next to it. He recognized the headache that was coming, and knew there would be no relief for it. At least not until he retired and didn't have to spend his days reading about lake monsters and serial killers, and then justifying the costs incurred by the agents in his division. Well, one agent in particular.

Once, in an almost serious moment, Skinner had asked Mulder why he didn't just take a hammer to his cel phone as soon as he got it. There'd be a lot less paperwork that way.

He recalled sleeping on the couch the night of that conversation.

Although he was concerned about his lover, and desperately wanted to see him, touch him, hold him-it had been almost two weeks, after all-he was dimly grateful not to have to be going over this report with him. It was a fine line that Skinner walked between being an adoring (and adored) lover and a surly (and frustrated) supervisor, and he knew that this report would have earned Mulder a tongue-lashing at best, and a full on, called on the carpet reaming at worst.

His mind didn't miss the double entendre, and he grinned to himself.

Back to the report, he turned the page and reached without looking for the ibuprofen in the top drawer of his desk.

He had to admit to himself that, were he not in a supervisory position where he had to justify Mulder's reports to those higher up than himself, he would have been having a great read. The story was interesting, well written, creatively spelled, and fascinating as only the paranormal can be.

It got far less fascinating when he thought about having to explain to the section chief how Mulder had lost yet another cel phone, and demolished a hotel bed.

He finished Mulder's report, set it aside, and dry swallowed two pills. He intercommed Kim and asked if she could bring him in a coffee, when she had a minute, then turned to Scully's report on the same incident.

Much less hysterical, nonsensical or metaphysical in context, Scully's report, including autopsy information and her own take on the case, was much dryer than Mulder's, but a far cleaner document to both go through and justify.

Skinner noted something at the bottom of the second last page, and was still frowning over it when Kim brought in his coffee.

Mulder had made no mention of the fact that the perp had apparently tried to kill him as they were bringing him in, and that he had sustained injuries. Not life-threatening, perhaps, but he had been choked and bitten, and his shoulder was sprained.

Typical, that Mulder would be more interested in reporting on the existence of some sort of sea serpent, than on a threat to his own life.

Typical, and frustrating, and Skinner wondered, not for the first time, about all of the people who must have come in and out of his lover's life and what they had done to make such a damaging impression on him. All of Mulder's actions were self-destructive in some way, be it physical, mental, or emotional. Everything from his inability to take a compliment to his complete disregard for personal safety which ran the gamut from laziness to full blown death wish made Walter want to simultaneously shake some sense into the younger man and hold him close and shower him with words of love.

Neither option was viable at the moment, as his intercom buzzed and Kim told him the section chief was ready for his report.

**********

The section chief was pissed.

More so than was the norm for him, it seemed, as the man was usually, if not open to suggestion, at least not completely closed to possibilities.

Today, it was apparent, at least to Skinner, that the man was being deliberately belligerent, almost sneering at the reports before him, and nit picking over what seemed to be minor details in a sarcastic way that Skinner was starting to resent. He didn't want to deal with the chief today-hell, he didn't want to deal with any of it today. He only wanted to be at home, with his lover, making sure he was all right.

Alphabetically, the X-Files were second last.

Scully's report got the first once over, and the chief didn't have much to say, beyond a query as to that particular agent's state of health, and whether the bureau would be incurring the cost of the use of the local health department's autopsy facilities. If he noticed the increasingly clipped tone of voice Skinner was using to reply, he didn't comment on it.

He was silent as he read Mulder's report.

And re-read it.

He was silent as he stared at Skinner, who was suddenly more interested in the carpet than on the man before him.

And stared.

When the silence finally got too uncomfortable, Skinner looked up at the older man squeezed behind the opulent oak desk. "Sir?"

"Is this supposed to be a joke?" the chief asked angrily.

"No, sir. Is there a problem?" Skinner knew this was going to get ugly, but all he could think about was Mulder's injuries, and a muscle in his tightly-clenched jaw twitched as he suddenly visualized kissing every bruise better, starting at the ankles and working his way up. If the chief noticed, he gave no clue, jumping into a nasty verbal tirade instead.

"'Is there a problem?' Would you like them alphabetically, or at random, Mr. Skinner? This is not the first time that you have brought me a report from Agent Mulder that reads more like something out of Jules Verne than a real life story. And then I'm expected to approve it? Tell me, how did you find the ability to justify these costs?"

"Sir, I-"

But the chief wasn't finished yet.

"The car wound up in the lake, for god's sake! How do you drive a car into a lake when the lake is twenty miles from the place where the suspect was apprehended? And another cel phone? Your division has the highest rate of equipment loss in the building, Mr. Skinner. And it seems to me that most of it comes from these so-called X-Files. How can you justify-"

Walter slammed his hands down on the desk, effectively cutting off the section chief in mid-sentence.

"Sir." His voice was sharp, but not loud. It didn't have to be. Once he was sure he had his superior's full attention, he continued in the same tone, anger flashing in his dark eyes as he spat out the words like bullets.

"May I remind you, sir, that the X-Files division has a case solution rate of over 70%. That is far above standard bureau requirements."

"Mr. Skinner-"

"May I also remind you that the agents under my supervision have faced more than their share of deadly situations and never shirked their responsibilities, sometimes with resulting personal injury that they manage to overcome to still solve the case."

"Uh-"

"And, yes, sometimes even I am at a loss to explain the contents of some of Agent Mulder's reports, but the man is one of the finest agents in the history of this organization, and to reign him in over something as damned insignificant as a lake monster eating a cel phone would be both unwise and counterproductive!"

Skinner stepped back from the desk, took a deep breath, and waited for the axe to fall. He wondered if the section chief would take his outburst and add two and two together to make four. Or five. Certainly he defended all the agents working under him when the situation warranted it, but this had been personal, and he knew it. Now he wondered if the section chief knew it, too.

The chief gave him a look, and asked quietly, "Is that all, Mr. Skinner."

Skinner nodded.

The chief looked down at the report on his desk, and looked warily back at Skinner, who gave him a defiant glare, as if daring him to attempt another attack on the X-Files, or Mulder. He didn't care if it was personal. If this was "coming out", then so be it. He'd be out, but on his own terms, knowing that he hadn't denied his lover, hadn't hurt a man still recovering from a lifetime of hurts. The feelings were at once frightening and freeing at the same time, and he was content he had done right.

"You stand by this report?"

"I do." Skinner didn't back down, literally or figuratively. His only thoughts now were for his lover, who, he was sure, had just cost him his job, or at least earned him an unscheduled vacation. And somehow he didn't care. He wasn't going to listen to any more attacks on Mulder that he couldn't justify himself, and that was the end of it, as far as he was concerned. Now it was up to the man sitting in front of him.

The chief set the X-File to one side and picked up the next file folder on the pile.

"Now, what can you tell me about the Zimmer case?"

Skinner breathed a quiet sigh of relief, and stepped back close to the desk to take a look at the file in the chief's hands, looking forward to wrapping things up and getting home.

**********

Mulder looked at his watch again, and fretted some more. Walter was late, and Kim was getting impatient with his incessant phone calls on the subject.

"He's still in the meeting, Agent Mulder. I'll tell him you called, again."

That had been over an hour ago, and there was still no word from his lover.

Still in the meeting at seven. The section chief must be raking him over the coals about my report- shit, shit, shit...I am so dead. I never had a chance-he never had one either. Maybe if I offered to pay for the cel phone myself. Mulder began to pace. He's going to kill me. I wonder if I should call Scully-she could start the funeral arrangements...Damnit! He flopped back down on the couch, then immediately stood, ignoring the angry throb from his wrenched shoulder. Maybe I should go to a motel. I'm sure this will blow over eventually, and then-

Mulder froze as the door flew open.

Oh, god...

He tried on a smile that felt ten sizes too small, and gave Walter his best casual "Hey." What came out was more squeak than tone, though, and he flushed red. Skinner seemed not to notice, responding instead with his own greeting.

"Hey."

It was a running gag between the two of them, the casual greeting they'd always used with one another, the one that they still used, although their circumstances these days were far from casual.

"How-how was your day?" Mulder stammered, still standing motionless in the middle of the living room as Skinner came towards him, shedding his London Fog along the way.

"Oh, you know, meetings, paperwork, more meetings. Same shit, different day." And he smiled, not seeming upset. At all.

It was then that Mulder noticed the flowers that Skinner was thrusting at him.

"Uh-wha-" He'd lost the ability to verbalize, but instinctively reached for the paper wrapped package.

 Skinner slipped one arm around him and gave him a kiss on the cheek, then nuzzled his hair briefly and asked, "How are you doing?"

Mulder stared stupidly at his lover, not sure what to say.

"Um...fine?" He didn't mean for it to come out as a question, it just did.

"You didn't mention getting injured in your report." Skinner led him over to the couch, hand gentle but firm on his back.

Mulder was still staring at Skinner, unable to understand what had happened, only realizing that he had been granted some sort of cosmic reprieve, and his lover was not going to tear him a new asshole, as he had expected. With the sort of wariness that years of disbelief can foster, Mulder wondered what Skinner was up to. Immediately he felt guilty for not trusting his lover, and again, it was a feeling he recognized. These thought processes were not new to him, only the person involved was.

All this went through Mulder's mind in less than a minute. He didn't reply to Skinner's statement, instead he turned his attention to the package in his hand. Undoing tape and pulling at paper revealed two roses on a spray of baby's breath-one brilliant yellow, one blood red.

Generally, Mulder was not a flower kind of guy. Funerals were about the only thing he'd sent flowers to, and then he let the florist pick something suitable. He'd never received flowers from anyone, either, until now; until Walter.

This was not the first time his lover had brought him some sort of floral display of affection. If there was a hospital involved, there was Walter, bouquet in hand, regardless of the seriousness, or lack of seriousness, of the situation. Once, Mulder remembered, one of his fish had died, and Walter had brought a dozen mums with the replacement fish. There'd been carnations for Valentine's Day, goldenrod for Halloween that had made Scully sneeze, and dozens of roses, always paired like this, never expected, but always appreciated. He knew the care with which Walter chose the flowers, and it made them all the more special. He had learned to enjoy the gifts, not be suspicious of them.

"Um, thanks?" Again unsure, his tone turned the statement into a question.

"So, how come I had to read about this-"Skinner touched a livid bruise on the side of Mulder's neck. "in Scully's report and not yours?"

Mulder shrugged and winced at the pain in his shoulder.

"You need to be more careful, Fox."

His first name made him aware of Walter's seriousness and he wondered if the flowers were simply Walter's way to soften the blow.

"I know. I will be." But he couldn't meet his lover's eyes as he spoke, and both men knew he was on the path to hell with that statement.

Skinner simply took him in his arms, mindful of his hurts, and held him and kissed him, relishing the feel of him, whole and reasonably healthy, and he thought again of what he'd missed for so long, and was thankful for what he had now. Any reservations he might have had about his conduct in the meeting today were dismissed by the warm body pressed tightly to his, and Mulder's mouth kissing him back.

Even as he returned his lover's affection, Mulder was still unsure. He loved this side of Skinner, the caring, attentive lover, but he could never fully accept what the man offered, not without expecting repercussions of some sort. He sometimes wondered if it wasn't pity that kept the older man with him, or some sort of skewed sense of kindness, much as one would feel for a puppy in the pound. He knew that Skinner must have had his hands full justifying his report to his superiors today, and yet, here he was, worrying more about him then his own ass. Mulder couldn't quite believe it.

"Walter?"

Skinner made a sound of acknowledgement close to his ear as he dropped a light kiss on his neck.

"About my report..." He wasn't sure where to start.

"Don't worry about it." Skinner pulled back and continued. "How does Italian sound for supper? I'm too beat to cook tonight."

"Italian sounds fine, Walter, but I need to know about the meeting, and my report and-"

Skinner kissed away the words.

"Everything went fine, Fox. No fear." Not only did Skinner not regret his angry words in the meeting tonight, he also wanted to make sure that Mulder understood that he believed him, trusted him, loved him, and not all the section chiefs, sea monsters or lost cel phones in the world would change that.

"Really?" Mulder was understandably skeptical.

"Do you trust me?" Skinner demanded. He wasn't hurt when Mulder didn't answer immediately. He knew that Mulder's trust issues would be a part of their relationship for a long time to come. He wasn't going to get over the lies and misuse that had filled his life to date just because Walter wanted him to. It was going to take time, and Skinner was determined to make sure he was an integral part of Mulder's healing process.

In fact, it was less than a minute before Mulder replied in a firm voice, "Yes."

"Well, I trust you, too. And I believe that is all that needs to be said on the subject for tonight." Skinner swooped in for another kiss, this one less friendly and more carnal.

Mulder pulled away, not quite finished with his worrying, although Walter's kiss seemed to have derailed his train of thought, and his breath came in quick, panting gulps.

Walter didn't push, even though he knew that he could end this right now, distracting his partner with mouth and hands until Mulder was incoherent. But he also knew that for this relationship to continue on beyond the physical, there had to be room for everything in it, good, bad, healthy or not, and he had to be patient. So he waited, and eventually Mulder found his voice again.

"If there was a problem, you'd tell me, right?" He couldn't shake the feeling that something had happened in the meeting tonight, something that Walter wasn't telling him. It didn't feel like a bad thing, more like a startling thing, almost as if something stiff in his lover had relaxed somehow. He didn't understand it, and that made him nervous.

"Of course I would." Walter replied easily.

"You don't have to defend me, or my work, you know."

"I know." He took hold of one of Mulder's hands, brought it to his lips.

"I mean, I don't expect you to."

"Of course you don't." He pressed a kiss to the soft skin of Mulder's inner wrist and felt his lover's pulse quicken under his mouth.

"No, I mean it Walter. I'm not asking-"

"And I'm not telling." Walter knew this conversation was quickly becoming pointless. They could go around and around for hours this way, with Mulder doubting everything and everyone in his life, even his lover, and Walter trying to ease his insecurities with pat phrases, roses and kisses. Of course, Walter also knew that the only way to make the relationship work would be to have these conversations, making sure that both men felt sure and comfortable enough with one another that they could voice doubts and fears as well as contentment and love. And he was more than willing to have more of these talks in the future. But for now, all he wanted was to forget the meeting, the reports, the job, and just be a man spending a quiet night with his lover, savouring both the emotional and physical pleasures he was getting from Mulder. So he turned on the surly Assistant Director button in his head for one last growl.

"Shut up, Mulder."

 

Copyright 2000 Michele. All rights reserved. I went to law school.

 

* * *

 

Title: I'll Be  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Spoilers: Redux II (it's the next day, does it still count?), Tooms  
Rating: R  
Beta: none  
Disclaimer: Boring but necessary disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised, and maybe crying a little, but they liked it!  
Feedback:   
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Summary: The truth is "OUT" there, and Walter's ready and waiting for it, but is Fox? A slashy sequel to Lean on Me, by request- Hi Mary! Hope this is long enough for you! Fox and Walter's mood music, side 2 track 6.

* * *

I'll be your crying shoulder and  
I'll be love's suicide  
I'll be better when I'm older  
I'll be the greatest fan of your life..."  
  -Edwin McCain  
  "I'll Be"

Thank you for everything. Fox.

One line, scrawled hastily on the back of a receipt.

One line, at once as revealing as a bad magician's slight of hand, and as shrouded as a San Francisco morning.

One line that could be the beginning, or the end.

Walter kept the note in his breast pocket all day.

A long hot shower had eased most of the ache in his back, the remnants of a night's sleep on the couch rolling off him along with the water, but bathing had done little for his state of mind. Throughout his morning ministrations, his mind focused on the night before, replaying every detail over and over, looking for errors, looking for answers.

Showered, shaved, dressed, pretending he wasn't wearing the navy suit with the subtle charcoal pinstripe because Mulder had commented on it once, asking him if it was a Hugo Boss. Shined his shoes, slipped them on, holstered his gun at his hip, taking an extra long look at his I.D. badge before thrusting it almost angrily into an inside pocket, suddenly remembering how old he was, how grim his visage and how little hair he had left, and realizing that he had probably stepped over a line at some point last night. He couldn't make himself feel guilty about it, but now he was worrying about Mulder's state of mind as well as his own.

Thank you for everything. Fox

He drove to work on auto-pilot, his mind more concerned about trying to recapture the sensation of holding Fox Mulder, to remember the silk of his hair, the scent of his cologne, the weight of his body. He parked the car and rode the elevator up to his office with the memory of the other man's heat almost palpable on his skin. He gave his assistant a perfunctory greeting and poured his own coffee, pausing to touch his breast pocket just long enough to reassure himself that the note was still there.

The morning was a blur of meetings, each one blending seamlessly into the next, and he couldn't say what they were about. He only knew he gave the appropriate responses at the appropriate times while savouring a slight twinge in his neck as confirmation that he had indeed held the other man on the couch as they both slept. Endless budget debates, crime statistics and financial assessments flowed around him while he contemplated what the note meant, less interested in the dynamic of the latest case files than in the dynamic of Fox Mulder.

Thank you for everything. Fox

Alone in his office at lunchtime, he drank coffee and ate a sandwich from the machine down the hall, not tasting either. He phoned the hospital and talked to Scully, not hearing her assurances of improved health and a swift return to work. He took the note out of his pocket and read it again, not realizing he'd said the name out loud until he did it the second time.

"Fox." He let the word roll off his tongue in a whisper, remembering briefly the only time he had called Mulder by that name. His first case as A.D. for the division that included the X-Files, and he had been suggesting to his wayward agent that he take a vacation. Mulder hadn't said a thing, just looked at him with solemn eyes and agreed. Later, he'd found out that no one called him Fox. He wouldn't stand for it, insisting on answering only to his last name, and Walter had made sure not to slip again. Ever after that, he was Agent Mulder, or just Mulder, but he never forgot how the man had let him call him Fox that first time, even after he had refused to allow Scully to use his first name. He said it again, now. "Fox..."

His assistant intercommed him.

"Sir, Agent Mulder is on line one."

"Thank you, Kim." He picked up the receiver, took a deep breath, took another one, and stabbed the connecting button harder than he had to.

"Agent Mulder?"

"Sir, I was just calling to-to-" His voice sounded tinny and frightened in Walter's ear, and he could almost see the man physically struggling for words.

"I think I know why you called, Mulder." One way or another, the truth would come out, and there was no point in putting it off.

"Sir?"

"You called in sick this morning, and now you're wondering if there were any new files that required your attention." He knew that wasn't why the other man had phoned, but he also knew that no personal comments of any kind would come from his mouth so long as he was speaking on his office phone. It didn't seem to matter how often bureau security assured him that his office was clean, that cigarette-smoking bastard seemed to always know what was being said and done here. Maybe now with Blevins gone, that might change, but Walter wasn't taking any chances.

"I wanted to know more about the case file you showed me last night." Mulder understood the need for discretion probably even better than his boss did, and Walter was grateful for it; grateful, and intrigued by what the younger man was saying without actually saying anything. He thought a long moment before carefully framing his reply.

"I don't know if it's an X-File, Agent Mulder, but I do think it's an important case."

"Yes, sir, so do I. I think it's definitely an X-File, although I'm not sure how qualified I am for this assignment. There are probably lots of other agents that you could choose. "

"I would say you are the only one qualified to pursue this particular line of investigation, Mulder." Walter was enjoying the word play, and he thought he could almost hear a smile on the younger man's face over the phone. His voice sounded stronger than it had when he'd first spoken, and it almost held a teasing tone.

"Have you had the case long, sir?"

"I've gone over the file several times, and I really believe it calls to your strengths as an investigator." Walter decided to up the ante. "Would you like me to bring you all the relevant data?" Maybe not the most romantic proposal he had ever made, but he held his breath regardless, waiting for the reply.

"I could come to your apartment to get it, sir. As I recall, I think I left a piece of information there last night, when you originally showed me the file. I think that one piece could be a key to solving this case."

Walter took the note out of his pocket, unfolded it, ran one finger over the print thoughtfully, almost reverently.

"I certainly hope so...Fox." He heard Mulder's breathing quicken on the other end of the line. "I'll call you when I'm leaving for the day. And Mulder," He paused.

"Yes, sir?"

"With regards to Agent Scully-her situation, and yours-take as much time as you need."

"Thank you, sir...for everything."

Walter heard the connection end, eyes still on the note, replaying the last words Mulder had said like a mantra in his head.

Thank you for everything. Fox

*********

 Walter was reclining on the couch, feet up on the coffee table, half-dozing through the news when the knock at the door came. He sat up abruptly, wincing at his back's not-so-subtle reminder that he was getting too old to be sleeping on the couch.

"Who is it?" he called out, knowing who it was, precautionary just the same.

"Agent Mulder, sir," came the reply.

Walter stood, stretched his back and approached the door with something like trepidation, and something like delight. He turned back the deadbolt and opened the door.

Mulder stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, head bowed, studying his shoes. The hall lights backlit cinnamon highlights into his hair, fascinating Walter for a fraction of a second. Then he touched the younger man lightly on the arm, and Mulder looked at him.

Walter took a moment to appreciate the flecks of gold and green that shone like rough gems in Mulder's eyes, and the long dark lashes that didn't seem inappropriate on this man. Then he also took note of the dark circles under the eyes, and the pallor of the skin beneath that.

"Come in, Mulder."

He stood aside to let his agent into the apartment, and he could have sworn that Mulder deliberately brushed against him. Then he shook off the thought as so much wishful thinking, and closed the door behind him.

"Let me take your coat."

Mulder shrugged out of the three-quarter-length leather coat he was wearing, revealing the rest of his outfit-jeans, which Walter had noticed only from mid-thigh down, and a black t-shirt, untucked. Walter could not disguise his frank admiration, noting with no clinical detachment whatsoever that casual clothes on Mulder gave him more muscle definition than his suits, which, while superbly tailored, were still cut in such a way as to make him look slimmer, lankier, somehow.

Mulder failed to notice Walter's scrutiny as his own gaze roamed up, then down his superior's body, clothed in casual khaki pants and a pale lemon button down, open at the throat to reveal the top of a white undershirt. The shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow, revealing strong forearms corded with muscle.

When Walter caught Mulder's gaze, the younger man went back to looking at his shoes, handing over his coat without looking up. Walter took it without a word, and slipped it onto a discreetly placed coat rack to the right of the door.

"So, can I get you something to drink? Other than scotch, of course,"

"I don't know, sir-scotch does have its merits. But I better not."

"Well, then, what about an iced tea?"

Mulder looked up then, and almost smiled.

"Did Scully tell you how much I like iced tea?" he asked, and Skinner could have sworn he heard a note of sexual tease in his voice.

"No, she never did." He gestured vaguely at the couch. "Have a seat. I'll be right back."

"When a character in a horror movie says 'I'll be right back', they never are-they always wind up hanging upside down in the kitchen with an axe in their face, sir." Mulder's voice was completely deadpan, and Walter had a feeling he wasn't teasing.

"I will be right back, Mulder. Depend on it." Without waiting for a reply, Walter left the room.

He returned with drinks in hand to find Mulder standing in front of his bookshelf. Clearing his throat to announce himself caused the younger man to whirl around, startled and Walter wondered, as he had last night, if it was him that was making the young man so jumpy, or if this was just Mulder's normal paranoia. Either way, he didn't like it and wished he could find a way to soothe away his agent's fears. Instead, he held out a tall, frosted glass.

"I'd tell you I made it myself, but I'd be lying, unless stirring counts."

Mulder took the glass from him with a smile and said, "I think stirring definitely counts, sir. Any time you stir something up, it's got to count for something."

More word play, and Walter realized that for Mulder, this was the easiest way for him to express his feelings.

"Of course it counts." Walter sat down on the end of the couch, and beckoned Mulder over with his eyes. Mulder turned back to the bookshelf instead.

Walter let him continue his inspection of the books in silence for a minute or two more, then, taking a sip of his own drink-definitely scotch for himself-he abruptly asked, "Looking for anything in particular?"

With his back still to the older man, Mulder spoke, his voice quiet and thoughtful.

"Handbooks and manuals dating back to when you would have first joined the Bureau-you're a thorough person who likes to keep on top of things. Just one book about Vietnam, and it's a picture book of Asian art and scenery. You don't like to remember the war. Tom Clancy, Dick Patterson, Michael Nava-you keep your fiction grounded in reality. Naruda, I see here, and Browning, and Yeats-expensive collector books of poetry indicate good taste and maybe a hidden romantic side." He turned finally to the older man sitting on the couch and gave him a measured look.

"But I don't see Leaves of Grass here."

Walter didn't know if he liked Mulder profiling him like a serial killer, but he replied immediately:

"I keep Whitman in the bedroom."

Mulder had the good grace to blush.

Walter patted the couch cushion next to him.

"Come. Sit. Sportsline is on."

Mulder moved carefully over to the couch, his eyes never wavering from Walter's steady gaze. He sat next to the older man but not too close. Walter made no move towards him, instead turning his attention to the television and taking another sip of scotch.

Mulder set his glass down on the coffee table and also focused on the sports program that was just beginning. He perched on the end of the seat cushion, shoulders hunched forward, looking slightly ill at ease. But, as the announcer on the television began announcing the basketball scores of the day, and Walter made no moves towards him, he began to relax.

Walter gave the younger man room to set the pace. He wouldn't rush anything, knowing that it was Mulder's choice to be here tonight, just as much as his own, and that whatever was going to happen, or not happen, would reveal itself slowly. He could feel emotions that he'd thought he'd successfully buried leaping and gibbering in his brain, back from the vaults and thrilled to be here. A silent self-rebuke allowed him to watch the show, while stealing surreptitious glances at the man next to him.

Mulder's eyes were glued to the television, absorbing the sports information like military secrets. His hands were busy in front of him, forming fists, then rubbing open-palmed down his thigh, then coming together as he cracked knuckles. Walter didn't even know if Mulder was aware he was doing it, but it fascinated him. The television was forgotten as he watched the young man beside him.

Without thinking, knowing he would only second guess himself into oblivion if he did, Walter reached over and took one of the younger man's hands in his own. Mulder had long fingers, but they seemed slight beneath his supervisor's great paw.

Walter felt the tension slamming through Mulder's muscles from his hand, up his arm, and back again. He looked over at his agent, catching his gaze and holding it, his own eyes never wavering. He didn't speak, didn't push, just held the hand and waited.

The moment was long and terrible and wonderful. Walter didn't move, scarcely breathed, just continued looking, getting his visual fill of the man beside him, while Mulder's gaze kept alternating between Walter's dark, sparkling eyes and their joined hands, almost as if his brain couldn't accept what his eyes were seeing.

When he didn't pull his hand away, Walter squeezed it almost imperceptibly, and asked quietly, "Are we okay here?"

Mulder thought a moment, bit his lower lip, then decided. "Yes. I think so."

"That's good then." And he turned his attention back to the sports cast. He didn't look over at Mulder, but couldn't help but smile when he felt the younger man tighten his grip on his hand.

They didn't speak again until the show was over. Then Walter pulled away, picked up his empty glass and stood. Mulder looked up at him quizzically.

"I need another drink, and then we need to talk. Are you okay?" he gave a nod towards Mulder's mostly untouched glass of iced tea.

"Yes."

Walter left him to his own thoughts, but was back before he could begin sorting them into anything resembling coherent ideas. Processing was totally out of the question, especially when Walter sat down next to him and took his hand again.

"Talk to me, Mulder."

"I wouldn't know where to start, sir."

Walter pulled the note out of his breast pocket, unfolded it and tossed it on the coffee table, where it sat as inconspicuous as a scorpion.

"How about starting with that," he said.

"Um, I wanted, that is-" Mulder kept his eyes on the note and away from the other man. "I didn't think I should just leave. I mean, with all that's happened, you might have thought-I just didn't want you to-to be worried."

"You signed it 'Fox'."

Mulder sighed, and his reply was almost inaudible. "It sounds nice, coming from you." Then he covered his eyes with his hands and said, louder, "I can't believe I just said that."

Walter pulled his hands away from his face and smiled kindly at him.

"I'm glad you did. And I'm glad it sounds 'nice'. If we're to go anywhere with this, I don't think I could just call you Agent Mulder." His eyes turned dark and his tone turned serious. "Are we going somewhere, Fox?"

"I don't know...Walter. I'm not sure what I'm feeling right now."

He stood up abruptly and began to pace. "I don't know where this came from-if it's just some sort of reaction to everything that's happened, or if it's a guilt reflex of some sort, or maybe-" He halted in mid-sentence and looked at Skinner imploringly. "I don't know if I can trust my feelings on this matter."

Walter stood up and met him in the center of the room, stopping his movements with a firm hand on his chest.

"If it helps, I trust you."

A moment of silence. Neither man moved. Walter's hand was still pressed firmly to Mulder's chest-he could feel the younger man's heart beating quick and strong beneath his fingers. Then:

"It helps."

"Do you want to try sitting down again?" Walter smiled and let his hand brush down and away from the other man's body.

They sat back down on the couch, and Walter again took Mulder's hands in his own. Slowly, so as not to startle the young man beside him, Walter moved forward until his mouth touched Mulder's lightly. He didn't try to increase the intimacy, merely held his lips gently on the other man's, letting him get used to the idea, letting him decide.

Mulder drew back, looking wounded, but Walter didn't think he was to blame.

"I'm no good at this," Mulder said. "I can't give you what you want. I don't even know if it's in me to give." His breath trembled out of him.

"I won't ask for more than you can give, Fox."

"I'm scared, Walter," he confessed unexpectedly. "Do you have any idea what this could do to you? Your career, your life-I-"

Walter brushed his lips across Mulder's again and said, "I hear you, Fox. I hear what's going on in your head. But what does your heart tell you?" He grinned suddenly. "And I believe that puts us even for romantic cliches tonight."

Mulder smiled back, then quickly pressed a kiss to Walter's cheek. Walter tightened his grip on Mulder's hands but otherwise didn't move.

Mulder cocked his head to one side, smiling at Walter, looking almost bemused.

The kiss on the other side of his face was just as soft, but there was something more deliberate in the caress as Mulder opened his mouth a little, tasting warm skin and rising stubble and liking it.

Walter closed his eyes, felt Mulder pull his hands away and then, a moment later, his glasses were being gently removed from his face. When he opened his eyes, he was staring into wide green pupils that smoldered with something like desire, something like fear.

Walter brought his hands up to Mulder's face, and gave him a far more intense kiss, licking and nipping at his lower lip, then thrusting his tongue into the other man's mouth. Mulder returned the intimacy with a hesitation borne of uncertainty, not revulsion, but even his innocent, almost clumsy maneuvering sent a wave of desire through Walter's body, and he groaned against that lush mouth, his hands moving down to Mulder's throat, then his chest.

They kissed for several minutes, with Mulder growing bolder as his own need intensified. He held the back of Walter's head with one hand while the other stroked up and down the larger man's back and shoulders.

Walter pulled back abruptly, his breath coming in quick gasps that he was pleased to note matched the other man's exactly. He stared hard into Mulder's eyes and slipped one hand around to tug at the hair on the back of Mulder's head.

"Before this goes any further, Fox, again, I'm asking you, are we okay with this?"

"This-this isn't about needing comfort, Walter," Mulder struggled to get the words out. Just the feel of the older man's big hand in his hair was enough to send shivers of wanting up and down his spine. "I'm not looking for a security blanket. Or-or a daddy." This last was said so quietly that Walter almost didn't catch it. But he realized immediately what Mulder was thinking, and he stroked the hand in his agent's hair around the side of his face, catching his chin and tipping it up just as Mulder was considering studying his shoes again.

"Mulder...Fox. When I look at you, I don't see a child. I see a man with a child's awareness. A man who is not afraid to look beyond the possible, who's not afraid to believe."

"Sometimes I am afraid."

"If you want to stop, right now, I will still be here for you. Do you understand?"

Mulder looked at him a long time, and, like a revelation, he understood with crystal clarity just what Skinner was offering him. And it scared the hell out of him. Not the physical feelings, he was familiar with them, was even enjoying them, in his way. Not even the implications of paternal protection worried him-he knew Walter would be his strength without thinking less of him as a man. No, it was the fact that Walter Skinner was not just wearing his heart on his sleeve here, he was in fact handing the whole shirt, heart and all, to him, to Fox "Commitment? I can't even keep fish alive" Mulder. And he didn't know if he could take it. Didn't believe he deserved it. But he had never more in his life wanted to believe than at that moment.

He closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around the other man in a fierce embrace.

Walter felt Mulder's warm breath tickle his ear as he whispered, "I trust you."

In the same quiet tone, Walter asked, "Do you want to go upstairs?"

He felt Mulder stiffen momentarily, then, his voice still muffled on Walter's neck, he replied, "Show me."

*********

Walter led Mulder by the hand upstairs to his bedroom. He smiled almost smugly when he heard Fox gasp, either with terror, or delight, he wasn't sure which, and at this point wasn't sure if it mattered.

"Nice bed, Walter, does it have it's own area code?"

Walter recognized the wisecrack for what it was: a defense mechanism wielded by a man whose very survival had depended on such verbal walls for far too long. Walter was determined to find holes in those walls, maybe even a door, if he was supremely lucky. For now it was enough to smile at the younger man and lead him with kisses and caresses until he was seated on the super king-size bed.

Mulder looked up at Walter and smiled uncertainly. The grin faltered as he let his eyes roam over the other man's body, and it faded completely when his gaze fell directly on Skinner's crotch.

Skinner had a rare insight as he realized exactly what Mulder was thinking, and where the sudden frown had come from. He hastened to allay the other man's fears.

"Tonight is about getting to know each other, Fox." He held up a hand before Mulder could protest that they had known each other for a long time, now. "I'm not a profiler, nor do I have any "spooky" insights into you-" Mulder gave him a grin at the use of his nickname. He continued. "I can only find out the things I do in ways that work for me. In my work, I've always been hands-on..." He knelt in front of Mulder. "I've always done my best work physically rather than mentally, and I'm not ashamed of that..." He was eye to eye with Mulder now, and he put his arms around his neck and kissed him. "I want to know you, Fox, if you'll only let me..." Walter's mouth muted any reply Mulder may have been forming. He tasted every inch of the other man's mouth, using tongue, lips, and teeth the way Mulder used words, phrases and gestures in determining a criminal profile.

Walter came to his feet shakily and Mulder's eyes tracked him, less wary now.

Walter slowly began undoing the buttons on his shirt. Mulder's eyes grew wide as Walter shrugged out of the garment, then pulled off the muscle shirt he had on underneath it. Both items fell to the floor, unnoticed. Walter moved close enough to Mulder to run one finger across the slightly frayed collar of Mulder's t-shirt.

"I'd like you to take off your shirt," he murmured. He continued fingering the worn cotton garment as he came to sit next to the younger man on the bed.

Mulder tipped his head back as Walter's mouth found his neck and he made a small sound as Walter's hands snaked under his shirt, running up and down his back and chest with rough abandon.

When Walter moved away, Mulder hastily pulled his shirt over his head and flung it in the direction of the door. He didn't protest when Walter pushed him back on the bed, nor did he voice any complaint as the other man stretched out beside him and took his mouth again, one hand on the back of his head, gently supporting it, the other stroking across his chest.

When Walter lightly brushed his fingers over Mulder's crotch, the younger man's body involuntarily arched up under his hand as Mulder pulled his mouth away from Walter's. That wary look was back in his eyes, but his breathing was laboured and he made no attempt to move away. Just looked up at him with eyes so dark and unsure that Walter wanted to cradle him in his arms and kiss away every fear, every uncertainty, and simultaneously find every rat bastard who had lied, mistreated and abused Mulder and kick the crap out of them. His eyes flared righteous anger for a moment at that last thought, and his jaw clenched in a grim frown.

"Walter?" Mulder's voice was timid, as was the touch of his hand on the side of Walter's face.

Walter snapped out of his momentary rage and pulled Mulder into his arms, smiling and kissing him gently.

"It's all right, Fox. We don't have to do more than this. I understand."

"I don't want your understanding, Walter. I want to do this-" he waved one hand around dramatically, "whatever 'this' is. I want-" Now his eyes blazed as brightly as Walter's had a moment before, but there was no anger in them, and no hesitation in a voice that had barely broken a monotone all night. "I want you."

The simple statement sent a bolt of renewed desire through Skinner's body, and his pants suddenly felt achingly tight.

"It's just been a long time, Walter." Fox continued. "And I'm not sure-"

Walter interrupted him with a kiss. "How long?"

Silence for a moment, then, returning the kiss, "Oxford," he whispered.

Walter looked at him sharply, trying to judge the man before him.

"It's been a long time for me, too, Fox, " he confessed. "I want so much for this to be right between us, but I-" he hesitated, and in that moment, Mulder took his hand and placed it back between his legs.

"I don't know from right or wrong here, Walter. I don't even know if I want to know. I only know what I feel. And this feels good." He arched back up into the unmoving hand, eyes never wavering from Walter's. "This feels like the truth." He touched Walter lightly. "Our truth."

Walter groaned aloud as Mulder's touch grew bolder, long fingers stroking him through the material of his pants. His own hand was mimicking Mulder's movements, and Mulder was thrusting forward, pushing hard against him.

Walter began a taste tour of Mulder's chest, nipping and licking at his collarbone, pressing his mouth to every part of the bare flesh he could find, until he reached one perfect small nipple, and took it in his mouth, suckling hard enough to make Mulder gasp and not notice when his pants were undone. Walter's hand made contact with Mulder's skin and he pushed the jeans down. Mulder raised his hips to allow Walter to disrobe him completely, only dimly aware of anything beyond what that talented mouth was doing to him.

Without hesitation, Walter moved his mouth down Mulder's body, relishing the taste of his skin, a combination of soap, sweat and something spicy and uniquely Mulder.

Mulder cried out when Walter took him in his mouth, stunned by the actions of his-his what? His supervisor? His friend? His lover? He didn't know, didn't care, could only give himself up to the intense sensations coursing through his body, centering on his cock. His hips came up off the bed, and Walter pulled away, quickly removed the rest of his clothes, then turned his attention back to the young man writhing on the bed.

He draped himself full length over Mulder, holding most of his weight up on his arms, keeping just the barest amount of friction between their two bodies, chest to chest, hips to hips. He grinned as Mulder arched his back, trying to force more contact.

Mulder had closed his eyes, but now he opened them and found himself looking deep into eyes the colour of bittersweet chocolate. He felt something old and rusty loosen up somewhere around his heart. In Walter's eyes, past the teasing glint, he could see both overwhelming desire and layers of concern for him that made him shiver.

"Last time, Fox. Are we okay? Are we going to be okay?" His words came out in a soft growl, like a great cat suddenly given the power of speech.

The quiet question penetrated Mulder's own desires, hitting that place deep inside him that he'd been trying, almost successfully, to ignore. He reached up and with two strong arms around the neck, crushed Walter to him and whispered in his ear.

"No promises. But no lies, either. Just you. And me. And the truth."

Walter saw tears glistening in the younger man's eyes.

Mulder felt Walter's heart beating in tandem with his own.

Desire pumped through two vastly different yet equally powerful bodies, and they relished it.

And then:

"And if you stop now, I'll kill you."

Walter laughed, a crystalline note of pure joy in his voice, then redoubled his ministrations on the man beneath him, and their universe spiraled down in a whirl of arms, legs, mouths, hands, and cocks until their movements became fluid and wordless and one...

 

What happened then? I hear you ask. Okay maybe I don't hear you, but if you want to know, check out part 3 of what I lovingly call the Redux Trilogy, If You Don't Know Me By Now

Copyright 2000 Michele. All rights reserved. I went to law school.

 

* * *

 

Title: I Can't Help (Falling In Love With You)  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Spoilers: Anasazi, The Ghosts Who Stole Christmas  
Rating: PG13  
Beta: Shane, the man who says it's "like", not "love", and "winter", not "season".  
Disclaimer: Boring but necessary disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised, and maybe crying a little, but they liked it!  
Feedback:   
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Summary: This story was inspired by various and sundry factors, those being: I wanted to write something that Shane could post on his new site, I watched the Ghosts Who Stole Christmas episode a couple of days ago, I'm currently working on a season 8 piece which is depressing the hell out of me, and it wasn't very busy at the bar last night. I also wanted to try something new, so, with a nod to all the dialogue geniuses out there, I present, a phone call. Fox and Walter's mood music, side 2 track 7.

* * *

"Take my hand  
Take my whole life, too.  
I can't help falling in love with you."  
 -UB40  
 I Can't Help (Falling In Love With You)

"Skinner."

"Doesn't anyone just say hello anymore?"

"Hey."

"Hey. I didn't know if you'd be home."

"Just got in. How is it going there?"

"Do you want the good news first, or the bad news?"

"Is the good news that you're packing even as we speak and you'll be home by midnight?"

"Not even close."

"All right, bad news then."

"Snow, Walter. Lots of snow. Lots and lots of snow."

"Here, too-just starting."

"I hate snow. I hate being cold."

"And here I thought you plastered yourself to me at every opportunity just because you loved me. I may as well be a hot water bottle."

"Whatever works."

"My ego's bruised."

"I'm sure you'll live. You'd better."

"That sounded needy. Miss me?"

"Fishing for compliments, Walter? That's not like you."

"It's been over two weeks, Fox."

"Now who's needy?"

"So if snow is the bad news, what's the good news?"

"Changing the subject? All right, I'll let it go this once. The good news is SAC Kish finally took his head out of his ass long enough to listen to what I've been saying since Scully and I got here."

"And?"

"And, we found the kid. She'll be okay, but we had to use near terminal force to get her away from the perp, who never would have had her if Kish had paid attention. Anyway, the bastard's in a coma down at the county general-damn, it is really coming down out there!"

"Never mind the snow, Mulder. Where's Scully?"

"She's with the girl. They both got banged up pretty bad when it all went down."

"Is she all right?"

"The kid?"

"Scully."

"Everybody's fine, Walter. Scully'll take the girl's statement, get stitched up and be back here in an hour or so."

"Are you okay?"

"I know you'll be disappointed, but I have no new and interesting scars for you to play with."

"I assure you I am not disappointed."

"God, I think we're entering the next Ice Age here!"

"Stop being so melodramatic. So, why are you not packing? Sounds to me like the regional office there can handle the final details without you and Scully."

"I told you, Walter. It's the snow. Airport's shut down for at least twenty-four hours, maybe longer."

"Shit."

"Truer words were never spoken. Why the hell does it have to snow anyway?"

"I'll go out on a limb here and say, because it's winter."

"Smart ass."

"That's why I'm an assistant director, and you're stuck in a snowstorm in North Dakota."

"Without cable."

"Poor baby. How will you survive?"

"The same way you do."

"Only louder."

"You've never complained."

"Neither have you. So, no cable, no Scully, no me-"

"Rub it in, why don't you?"

"No, rubbing it in would be telling you I'm sitting in front of the fireplace, scanning channels on the dish, waiting for supper-I ordered Thai."

"Tell me again why you think I love you."

"Have you eaten?"

"Nice segue."

"Answer the question."

"Yes."

"You're lying."

"Yes."

"Order something from room service. The way you're expense accounts usually read, no one will even notice a meal on this one."

"I'm choosing to ignore that comment. I'll be fine, Walter. I'll eat with Scully, when she gets back."

"I'll be verifying that, of course."

"Don't you trust me?"

"Of course I do. I also know you when you're profiling."

"It's a living."

"I wish you were here."

"I wish I was there. I need my hot water bottle."

"More sweet talk. How nice."

"Tell me more about the fireplace-I'm feeling masochistic tonight."

"How can someone from New England not like snow?"

"It's easy."

"Seriously, Fox. I've always liked winter myself. It always reminds me of childhood-skating, sledding, snowball fights-"

"Don't forget searching for your abducted sister and taking it on the chin from your alcoholic father-two of my favorite winter sports."

"Oh, Fox. I'm sorry."

"No, it's not you. It's me. I just don't do the season well. I didn't mean to piss all over your holiday spirit."

"Speaking of which, what are your plans?"

"Plans for what?"

"For global domination, silly. I mean for Christmas."

"I don't plan for Christmas, Walter. It just happens."

"What did you do last year?"

"Last year? Oh, yeah-last year, Scully and I killed each other-and then we exchanged gifts."

"I'll ask the obvious question-"

"How can I be taking to you from a cold hotel room in North Dakota if my partner and I did in fact orchestrate each other's demise?"

"No. What did you get her?"

"A map of UFO hotspots in the greater Washington area."

"Sweet. What did she get you?"

"Porn."

"It must be love."

"That's what she said the last time she shot me."

"I thought maybe we could spend Christmas together."

"Or I could just get Scully to shoot me again."

"Oh."

"It's not like that, Walter. I just don't like Christmas. I get too neurotic-and believe me, I know from neurotic."

"You are the psychologist."

"I usually just work."

"Just so you know the offer's on the table."

"I appreciate it, Walter. I truly do."

"We can talk about it when you get back."

"All right. Hey, I think I hear Scully in the next room. I should go."

"Wait."

"I have to use the phone to order the food you're making me eat."

"In a minute. Go stand by the window."

"Why?"

"Just do it!"

"Ooh, was that a surly Walter Skinner growl, patent pending, I just heard?"

"Mulder, just shut up and get your ass over to the window."

"Yes sir!"

"Are you looking?"

"It's snow, Walter."

"I want you to take a good hard look at it. Now, close your eyes."

"Is this phone sex?"

"Are your eyes closed?"

"Yes! Shouldn't I be naked, or something?"

"No."

"Oh."

"I want you to think about the snow, and the wind, and the cold and-"

"I would not pay 4.95 a minute for this, Walter."

"And then I want you to think about someone who loves you very much-"

"Walter..."

"And will keep you warm for as long as you want..."

"Oh..."

"My food's here, Fox. I have to go."

"All right. Thanks."

"Not necessary."

"Thanks anyway. And Walter..."

"Yes?"

"About Christmas..."

"Yes?"

"I think I'd like that."

"Goodnight, Fox."

"I'll call you tomorrow."

The end.

 

Copyright 2000 Michele. All rights reserved. I went to law school.

 

* * *

 

Title: After The Love Is Gone  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Spoilers: Requiem, Within, Without, and names from Pusher and Kitsunegari  
Rating: NC17  
Beta: none  
Disclaimer: Boring but necessary disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised, and maybe crying a little, but they liked it!  
Feedback:   
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Summary: This is a test run for season 8 fiction. It's wretched and miserable, but I promise to make the next one fun and sexy-It's not my fault Chris has done what he's done. Fox and Walter's mood music, side 2 track 8.

* * *

"After the love has gone  
What used to be right is wrong  
Can love that's lost be found?"  
 -Atlanta Rhythm Section  
 After The Love Has Gone

He's sleeping peacefully at least and I suppose that's something. And he kept down supper tonight-first time since-

With only a small nightlight on, and without benefit of my glasses, I have to squint to make out the top of his head sticking out from the covers. His hair is longer than it was when we lost him; scruffy, but, from what I've felt the couple of times he's let me touch it, still incredibly soft. He's buried himself under the duvet, and curled up into a ball. He's shivering, just a little, and I wonder if I should get up and find another blanket for him.

That's new, the cold. I always teased him that it was a little like sleeping with a blast furnace. Now, well, let's just say there're a lot more sweaters folded up in the bureau, and socks and sweats are a bedtime necessity. He made some lame joke about it the first night, but his eyes were begging me not to laugh. And I didn't. Just touched his arm, ignored the flinch, and told him I loved him.

Another shiver, a little more intense, so I'll go get that blanket now, but I pause as he turns his head, and I catch sight of pure white strands of hair mingling with the dark brown just above his right eye.

He makes jokes about that, too, talking about his distinguished new look. I tell him I think it looks sexy, and then we change the subject.

It only takes a minute to fetch a blanket from the linen closet. He hasn't moved. Doesn't move, in fact, as I tug the duvet back, but his shivering increases, and he makes a kind of whimpering noise when I tuck the blanket around his shoulders. I pull my hands away quickly so as not to wake him. I replace the duvet and tamp down the desire to kiss him.

As I walk around the bed and crawl into my side, I remind myself that this too, shall pass, that he's getting better every day. I notice it more when he's awake, of course, but-

The last time I tried to touch him in his sleep, it wasn't even anything so dramatic as a kiss. I just touched the side of his face, softly of course, mindful of the scars there-

He cried in the bathroom for over an hour, and wouldn't let me in. When he finally emerged, I saw the apology and self-loathing in his red eyes as he took to the couch without a word for the rest of the night.

I don't talk about it, and he can't. We make a fine pair, the two of us, both tough guys in our way. I know he talks to Scully-hell, even I talk to her once in a while. As our professional relationship has grown and changed, so too has our personal one. Especially now.

She's his doctor (one of them, anyway), as well as his partner and friend, and they are about as close as any two people can be. I know he's told her things that still remain a mystery to me, and I know that sometimes she is the only thing that can stand between him and a total descent into madness-I've seen it before...

I should be jealous, I suppose, but I'm not. His need for her has nothing to do with me, and I understand it. Sometimes I feel that need myself-the need to hear her clear forthright analysis of the situation. She has a knack for cutting through bullshit that will put her in the director's chair someday, I'd wager. Coupled with that is her rare gift of empathy that's even touched me.

Fox was adamant that Scully be made privy to our relationship from the start, and I reluctantly agreed, mostly because I knew he'd do it with or without my consent, and I wanted to be there for damage control if she couldn't handle it.

She was fine.

More than fine, she was totally supportive, surprising me with her trust-I suppose she was relying on Fox's judgement more than my actions, but I was grateful nevertheless.

My thoughts are interrupted by my lover's cry. It's not loud; he's just warming up, if past night's actions are any indication, but the small sound is enough to pierce my heart like a rapier, and force a frustrated sigh past my lips.

I sit up, and punch the pillow a couple of times, and sigh again, trying not to look at him, staring instead at the ceiling and wondering at what's happened. Happened to Scully, to me, most of all to him, and wondering if maybe he and I are through. If maybe we aren't just going through the motions here, constantly denying the truth we both know, lying instead to each other, to ourselves, to our own hearts. Part of me realizes that this is just so much three-in-the-morning, darkest-before-dawn depression and, that as daylight approaches, as it must, I'll remember everything I love about him, about us, and I'll be ready to fight the good fight again for another day.

He's quieting down again, and shivering less, and my thoughts turn back to Scully. Not her so much as her pregnancy, the loss and the regeneration. I talked to her tonight after Fox had gone to bed, and she told me that she's expecting more test results tomorrow, although all the doctors she's been to are as baffled about her spontaneous re-occurring pregnancy as they are about the scars and implants that now grace my lover's body.

More sounds from his side of the bed, which tonight lays miles away from my own, and my thoughts freeze up. If he wakes up now, I know neither one of us will get any more sleep this night, just as I know how much more painful it all seems at night, in the dark...

Another cry, and I nearly groan aloud with frustration. A lifetime ago, before-before all of this-all I would have had to do is scoop him up in my arms and hold him tight, and the night terrors, which have always been a part of him, would be vanquished, simple as that. Usually, though, we'd go from hugs and kisses to incredibly hot sex, just to be on the safe side...

I smile bitterly in the dark, memories of kissing, and groping, of fucking and being fucked assailing my senses, burning my mind and my body, creating desires that I can't fulfill-that we can't fulfill...

Scully insists he's improving. I tell myself that, too, and, hell, sometimes I even believe it. I've gotten smiles, tentative pats, and even a kiss, paper dry and on the cheek like he's my maiden aunt, but still...I guess it's a start. And it could be so much worse...

My mind insists on replaying our most animated couplings and I seem unable to shut it down. My body aches with needs I've never had a problem with, until now...I'd never betray him, nor will I take what I want by force, ever, but...

I've resorted to jerking off in the bathroom, something I haven't done since I was a kid, for Christ's sake. I always start out thinking of him, wanting him, wishing I could be with him in some way, any way, wanting to see that look in his eyes, that hunger that I know is for me and me alone. But by the time I complete the act, I'm wondering if I'll ever see it again. My orgasms are joyless and mechanical, and I usually finish up the grim chore with a good cry worthy of Fox Mulder himself.

The whimpers and moans coming from across that grand canyon that our bed has become are being repeated at regular intervals now, sounding pained and terrified, and I find myself crying a little, too, fists clenched tightly at my sides, trying by sheer force of will to drive his demons away. For a moment I wish I was Robert Modell, or Linda Bowman-both dead now, both undeniably nuts, but both had at one time or another had more control over my lover and his thoughts and deeds than I do right now. I feel helpless, and I hate it, and in that moment, when I hear him crying out "No! NO!" I hate him, too. For making me doubt myself-for making me feel weak and confused and unable to help him.

I know that if I reach over and touch him, he'll wake up immediately. But then his fear, his terror, whatever it is that's possessing him, will be directed at me instead, and I just can't take that. Not tonight, not when I'm lying here feeling exposed and vulnerable, like one of Scully's autopsy cadavers, tore open and raw. So I lie here on my edge of the chasm and I keep thinking as he thrashes now, a low keening noise coming from somewhere deep inside him, then more begging: "No, no, please, no..."

"Please, no," I whisper back.

It has to end some time, I think, remembering what Scully told me just after he'd been taken. And that time is now...

"Please, no," I say it a little louder, and from somewhere inside me suddenly comes a hidden reserve of strength, and I feel my jaw clench instinctively. It does not have to end. We will work this out. We both have so much invested in this relationship, as hard as it's been, as hard as it's going to be, I have to believe it's worth it. I want to believe.

I don't think he wants it to be over either. I know how much he wanted this from the beginning, only because he was the one brave enough to initiate it all, not knowing how I felt, but doing it anyway, taking a chance, risking it all so that we could have each other.

And now I've got him back, when Scully and I had all but given up hope of his ever being returned to us. We thought he was gone forever. What we did to find him, to save him, what we gave...

I'm not giving up. I won't...I can't...

I still love him, and I think he loves me, and I also think that this time it's going to be me who has to make that first move, take that leap of faith. I'm going to have to show him some of that kick-ass Marine bravery that he thinks I have. Maybe the key to opening him up is to let him see inside me first. Give a little, get a little and all that crap. I wince at that thought, knowing whose words I'm paraphrasing, but I quickly derail that particular train of thought before it can go any further.

"Scully?" His voice is husky with fear and need and I glance over, thinking he must be awake, but his eyes are still tightly shut. He says her name again, louder this time, and his face contorts, as if in pain. I think I should risk waking him, maybe scaring him a little, but nothing like what it looks like he's facing in his dreams. And when he pulls away from me, we can start to talk about why. About what was done to him and what I am physically reminding him of. And then we can start to get back to that place where my body was not alien to him, not threatening, but rather welcoming, safe and comfortable.

I watch my arm reach over to him, I watch my hand open from it's tight fist into a flat open palm and questing fingers that are already searching out his scruffy hair, fingers that memorized the textures of Fox Mulder years ago, and now seem to cry out of their own volition for a reminder.

"Walter?"

I draw back as if stung, frozen in place. He has never called my name from wherever it is he goes in his dreams. Not even before-before-when he dreamed of a sister long gone as often as he did of his partner.

I wait in what feels like an eternity of silence, listening too hard, already rationalizing that I only heard what I wanted to hear. The bedsheets rustle, sounding startling loud in all that silence, and I watch tensely as Fox uncurls himself and flings his body out full length. Followed by a moan, then a cough, then another moment of that perfect stillness. I notice that his shivering has stopped completely, but whether this is because of the extra blanket, or just more wishful thinking on my part, I have no idea. However, I am not about to question it.

Suddenly, with a wail, Fox comes rolling across the bed, all hundred and not-nearly-enough pounds of him, to land, sprawled in my arms, hanging on to me like he's Kate Winslet and I'm a makeshift raft. I can feel the muscles in his arms tensing and flexing. His legs begin to twitch too, as though he's trying to run, to push his way through me like a football tackle dummy. I can only lie here, too stunned to move, watching with something approaching awe as his torso twists and he calls out my name again and again.

"Walter...Walter, please, please, no, Walter...?" The words trail off, he heaves a great sigh, and almost completely relaxes, head nestled in the curve of where my arm and shoulder are joined, one arm tight across my chest, his fingers digging almost painfully into my side, and the other pulled close to his body, that hand curled into a loose fist at his jaw.

I'm flummoxed. I don't know what to do. I'm afraid to move. I realize that this is some sort of miracle, but I've learned not to trust in miracles, as well as a lot of other things, and frankly, I'm not taking any chances with whatever this is.

My hands have other ideas, however, and it is with something like horror that I realize that my fingers are moving towards his hair, seemingly of their own volition, and I can't seem to stop them. Or maybe I just don't want to.

But, when I finally feel the soft strands of hair on my fingertips, and I decide that I am about to have some sort of major coronary event here, all he does is sigh again, exhaling a gust of warm breath across my chest that I feel all the way to my toes. His grip on me doesn't loosen, and I think I will have bruises in the morning. I don't care.

This may be the starting point for him and I. The new beginning, where we can start to talk about it all. His fears, and mine. What happened to him up there, and what happened to me down here. I won't tell him about Doggett, yet, about what we had to do to get him back. I don't think he's strong enough yet, and I think Scully would agree with me.

So I just rest my hand on the back of his head, let the tears fall, and whisper "I love you, Fox."

 

Copyright 2000 Michele. All rights reserved. I went to law school.

 

* * *

 

Title: Lovers In a Dangerous Time  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Spoilers: various and sundry, nothing specific  
Rating: R-I said balls  
Beta: none  
Disclaimer: Boring but necessary disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised, and maybe crying a little, but they liked it!  
Feedback:   
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Summary: an attempt to write the quarterly challenge, "Baby It's Cold Outside." Didn't really work<g> But, for better or worse, this is the last track of Fox and Walter's Mood Music! Side 2, Track 10. Oh, and slippers take note, there is no romanticizing the word ass! Dedicated to Mary, who likes 'em long, and Shane, for the torture on my soul-shut up, that's why!

* * *

These fragile bodies of touch and taste  
This fragrant skin this hair like lace  
Spirit's open to the thrust of grace  
Never a breath you can afford to waste  
 -Barenaked Ladies  
 Lovers in A Dangerous Time (Bruce Cockburn)

Part one: Dreaming

"I should go," he says, rising from the bed and reaching for the pants tossed over the chair.

"I wish you wouldn't," is the reply from the depths of the bedsheets.

He zips up the pants, foregoes the undershirt, and pulls on the white dress shirt with the understated grey pinstripe.

"I don't think this was such a good idea," He frowns down at the front of the shirt, which is now buttonless and a little torn from earlier enthusiasms.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time." The other man sounds like he's smiling. "Or did I read the signals wrong?"

"Something like that," he replies cryptically, scooping up shoes, socks and jacket and heading for the closed bedroom door.

"We could talk about it."

"Nothing to talk about," he says, discovering the door is locked. He sighs quietly, tries the knob again, then looks back at the man in the bed, saying, "ha ha. Now open the door. I have to go."

"Nothing bad will happen if you stay, you know," says the man in the bed. "Come on." He almost sounds like he's pleading, but he sounds like he's still smiling, too.

"Look, I'm tired, and I just think I should get out of here." He's talking to the man in bed, but facing the door as he drops his shoes and slips them on over bare feet. "We can talk tomorrow, all right?" When there is no reply, he turns, a little more upset now, and says, "please, just open the door."

The other man is no longer in the bed.

He turns back to the door, and the other man is there, blocking the exit.

"Come back to bed," says the man at the door, reaching out to touch his cheek. He flinches and backs away, demanding "let me out."

The other man takes a step towards him, and he retreats, even as he's thinking he should just bully his way through, cowboy it up and force the other man aside, force the door open, force the barricades down...

"Let me out," he says again, disgusted with the petulant whine that his voice has suddenly become.

"You can stay. You know you can stay. It's all up to you, but you know you can stay for as long as you want."

This makes no sense to him, but the other man has moved aside now, and the door is ajar. He lunges for it, dropping the clothes in his hand, not noticing, focusing only on that opening, that last chance to escape before...before...

The door slams behind him and he is nowhere. All around him is white and formless. He can hear distant pounding, and the other man calling for him, but when he turns around the door is gone, and there is only white mist and white walls and white stretching up and out in every direction. Still, he can hear the other man's voice:

"Come back! Come back now!"

Instead he moves away from the voice, forcing himself to step forward into nothingness, feeling more afraid of what might be behind him than of what's ahead.

It's like walking through invisible taffy, and as each step becomes more difficult, as he feels invisible barriers hampering his progress, he can only think that he has to get out of here, that he can't look back, that it has to be easier than...

"Please stop." The other man's voice is the softest trace of a lost murmur in his ear. "Please don't go."

He shakes his head violently, like dislodging a stinging insect, and the voice, still pleading quietly, fades away.

He takes one last step, feeling the muscles in his legs quivering with the strain, although there appears to be nothing holding him back, and then he hears a 'snap', like the world's largest rubber band being flung from the fingers of a mean six year old, and suddenly all resistance is gone. His center of gravity shifts to dance teasingly in front of his nose and he falls, knocking the wind out of himself.

The stark whiteness is gone, replaced by dappled greens and golds, and a familiar wet, earthy smell that makes him feel nautious and immediately sets his nerves to singing "Ave Maria."

He gets slowly to his feet, breathing stenorously through his mouth, feeling like he's just run a marathon. Looking at himself, he realizes he is still in the remains of his suit, shirt open, bare ankles chafing against the rough wool of his trousers

"Why are you here?"

He whirls at the sound and finds himself face to face with a small, dark-skinned boy with grenades strapped to his chest.

He remembers this boy, but doesn't know why. Before he can speak, he hears the rubber band 'snap' again, and the boy disappears.

"This isn't the way."

Another voice, behind him, and he turns and sees a young soldier, eyes dark, wide and frightened, dressed in torn and bloody khakis. His face is smudged with ashes and dirt.

"You have to go back," says the soldier.

"I can't!" he replies. "I can't go back there!"

"You know that's not true." The soldier shakes his head sadly and raises his gun. "You are just afraid to go there."

"I'm not afraid!" he protests hotly.

The soldier shoots him.

He clutches his chest and blood pours through his fingers and he falls over on his back, gasping for air.

A shadow looms over him and he cringes, trying to turn over, trying to crawl away.

"No!" he cries. "No, please, no." He doesn't know what he's pleading for, he only knows that he is afraid.

A hand presses over his, and the jungle spins sickeningly around him. He struggles against the pressure on his chest, but the hand is implacable, and even as he knows that he's dying, he knows that he is being given a choice-the choice-

"Live," says the little boy, his face suddenly appearing before him, too old eyes in the childish face large and solemn. Then he bursts apart as the grenades explode, temporarily blinding him.

"Live," says the soldier, who takes the place of the little boy as soon as he can see again, but who is shredded in a hail of gunfire as soon as he speaks.

"Live a little," says a man in an orange jumpsuit and a matching baseball cap. His face begins to melt into a familiar visage, one with eyes like ice and hair like flame.

"I-I-No!"

Part 2:Waking

Fox Mulder woke with a gasp and sat bolt upright, clutching at his chest. He looked down, expecting to see blood in his hand, but there was none. He gulped air for several seconds, then put his hands over his face.

A soft touch on his shoulder made him jerk away defensively.

"Easy, Fox. It's me." Walter Skinner pulled his hand back. "Another nightmare?"

"You have to ask?" Mulder snapped, then immediately looked shamefaced and muttered, "Sorry. This one was a little worse than usual." He touched his chest again, briefly.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No! Yes. But not now." His fright-darkened eyes implored his lover, as he tugged gently on the older man's arm. "Right now, I need to get out of my own head. Do you know what I mean?"

A nod.

"Can you do that for me, Walter?"

"Whatever you need, Fox." Walter set aside his glasses and the file he had been reading while Mulder slept, but left the bedside lamp on. He pulled Mulder into his arms and entwined their legs. He took his mouth gently, prodding his lips with his tongue until Mulder opened his mouth obligingly, at which point he moved away, nibbling on his jaw instead, then licking at his ear. When Mulder squirmed, Walter hugged him tighter.

He bit at the sensitive skin behind Mulder's ear and was rewarded with a shiver and a low moan, which made him do it again. Soothing licks followed, blazing a hot, wet trail down the side of his neck, then up his chin and back to his mouth.

He bit at the full lower lip, then thrust his tongue into Mulder's mouth, plundering its warm depths, tasting him, testing him...

Mulder whimpered against his mouth and Walter pulled away abruptly.

"Shhh..." he murmured, then took possession of his mouth again as his hands stroked down the younger man's sides; one hand curved around his hip, the other stroked back up his body and around to the back of his head, his thick fingers ensnaring themselves in Mulder's tousled hair. In this position, Walter was able to pull himself halfway on top of his lover, effectively pinning him to the bed without hurting him.

Mulder gasped as Walter released his mouth and bit at his shoulder, then licked the spot, then bit again, harder, while simultaneously moving the hand on his hip around front to grasp his growing erection.

"Oh-oh-" Hips thrust automatically as Walter stroked him expertly, still cradling his head and bringing his face back up to kiss and nuzzle his lips and cheeks.

Mulder's tongue slipped out to entwine almost delicately with Walter's outside their mouths, then, as the tempo of Walter's strokes increased, he reached up to cup the back of Walter's head and, with what could only be considered a growl, he pushed his tongue into Walter's mouth, doing his own exploring, tasting a ridge of tooth, the smooth plane of gum, kissing him deeply and with something akin to desperation.

Walter pulled back, allowed Mulder to thrust forward a couple of times, then squeezed the base of his cock and kissed away the ensuing groan of frustration, whispering, "steady, Fox..."

"Walter, I-I-" He was crushing the older man to him now, clinging to his neck and breathing the words into his chest.

"Tell me what you want, Fox." Walter stroked his hand up, down, up, down-

Mulder cried out and Walter's hand stilled again.

"Tell me," he demanded, his voice rough with some unspoken emotion and his own growing arousal.

"Want..." Up went the hand. "Oh-oh-god-" Down. "Need you-" Up. "Ohhh, please..." Down.

He threw his head back and Walter latched onto his throat, sucking and licking, knowing it would leave a mark, wanting to leave a mark, wanting to brand the young man under him, to make him his forever...

He kept up a steady motion with his hand, squeezing and pulling harder in a way he knew he liked himself.

Mulder bucked helplessly into Walter's hand, then his back arched so hard he nearly dislodged his lover and he cried out as his orgasm burst through him, making him see stars...

He came back to himself cradled in Walter's arms. His lover hugged him tightly and dropped a kiss on his damp forehead. Mulder ran his hands down Walter's body and realized that he was still hard. He looked up at the other man, chagrined.

"Oh, Walter, I'm sorry! I-"

Walter put a hand over his mouth, brushed his fingers over kiss-swollen lips, then kissed same, softly but intensely.

"Shh..." he whispered against his mouth. "I'm fine. This was about getting you out of your head, remember?" His voice held a teasing lilt, but his eyes were dark and searching.

"I think it worked," Mulder replied, sounding sleepy and satisfied.

"I think it did, too." Walter petted his hair and kissed him again. Mulder turned in his arms and splayed his hands across his chest, his thumbs finding the other man's nipples unerringly and brushing across them a little roughly. Walter made a noise low in his throat, then caught his lover's hands in his own, threading their fingers together.

"We don't have to do anything else, Fox."

"There's a popular theory among some scientists that we don't actually have to do anything. We don't even have to breathe. We just want to breathe because we don't want to die."

"Don't we have a rule about that kind of talk in bed?" Walter tried for a surly growl and failed spectacularly when Mulder pulled his hands away and reached down between them to fondle him experimentally.

"No rules, Walter. Not here. Not now." Mulder's hands were on his chest again, stroking and scratching lightly and he pushed him down on his back and covered his body with his own. He rubbed himself provocatively over Walter's erection and swallowed the ensuing groan with a kiss. Then he moved lower, and took a nipple in his mouth

"Well, if you really want to..."

Part 3: Fox

First of all, I've always had nightmares, so it's not like this was something new. Second thing is that I tend to over-analyze everything-surprise! Always have, even before I got my degree, even before I could spell analyze. So, I know what this dream meant, and where it came from. Third thought, and this one is probably the most important one, is that Walter has been here for some really spectacular nightmares, the worst of the lot culminating in a thrashing pre-waking frenzy that blacked one of his eyes-oops. Point being, he's seen this before, so he has no idea that tonight's sojourn into the world of Spooky night terrors had nothing to do with my sister, my partner, my parents, or little green men-or grey. Whatever. This is usually the case, and what he expects. But I know what tonight's dreams meant. I know why I dreamed of fleeing. I know why it took place in a jungle. Hell, I even know who the guy in the baseball cap was-the H is silent, right, asshole? I know exactly what it was all about.

I've fallen in love with Walter Sergei Skinner, and that scares the shit out of me.

Even as I think it, I shudder a little, and the bed shudders with me. Not so bad as the old waterbed would have, but enough to cause Walter to shift a little beside me, mutter something unintelligible, and throw one huge arm over me, almost knocking the breath out of me. But I relish it, and I stroke his arm where it lays across my chest, feeling the play of strong muscles under skin and hair, leashed strong muscles in forearm and bicep. I find his wrist with my fingers and the pulse I feel there beats in tandem with my own heart.

I sigh without meaning to, then freeze as he moves again, praying that I didn't wake him, and at the same time hoping that I did.

His hand strokes down my torso and comes to rest on my hip as he snuggles a little closer, and I can't believe I just thought the word "snuggle" in conjunction with someone like Walter, even if he is my-my what? My lover, I guess. How odd that sounds, even just in my head. My lover. My friend. My partner. My boss. Only the last one sounds right. The others, well, I think I always pictured someone else in those roles. Someone petite, maybe. Someone with blue eyes and red hair, not brown eyes and no hair...Adjectives like "surly", "balding" and "ex-marine" had not consciously been a part of my top ten list for potential mates-I'm sure I would have noticed. But apparently, my subconscious had it's own agenda. And now here I am, lying in the arms of my big, bad boss, bathing in post-nightmare-sex afterglow, and I like it. I like him. I-

I thought it was just lust. I could understand that. I've always had errant thoughts and stray hard ons for men as well as women. I think Scully even knew it, even if we never discussed it. I never acted on it, though. Not since Oxford, anyway, and hell, over there it's like a pre-requisite, or something. But after I came back to the States, there just never seemed to be an opportunity, what with work, and Samantha, and then finding the X-Files. Throw in Diana and a stray vampire or two, and it just never happened. Just too much going on, I guess.

Or maybe I just hadn't found the right person. Oh, my god, how hokey is that? I sound like a heroine from one of those cheesy bodice-ripper romance novels that Scully thinks I don't know she reads.

Stupid or not, I have to admit that the thought of the right person, once formed, is in my head now, and for better or for worse, I have to acknowledge it-acknowledge him.

Walter has always been there for me. Since he first took over the X-Files division, a job I have no doubt he wonders what he did to deserve, he's been as supportive as he could be, both at work and outside of it. He walked a fine line for the longest time, trying to keep me from my own self-destruction, as well as keep those above me from doing the job themselves. He didn't always succeed, in fact sometimes he failed spectacularly, but it would be impossible for a man so honorable and good to realize the depths to which some of these shadow players would go. To protect themselves, to protect their work.

Even Scully, who had serious suspicions about Walter's motivations, has come around. I think she understands him a little more, now. Understands that he can't always be her partner's lover. Sometimes he has to be the hard as nails, by the book boss, in order to protect OUR work, just as those above him are protecting theirs. And now that she has some insight into why he does it, she seems a little more at ease with him in the office, and perfectly at ease with him at home. Speaking of which, I have to call her today and find out if she wants us to bring anything when we come over for supper tonight.

I digress into thoughts of Scully's homemade pasta sauce, recognizing the defense mechanism for what it is. After a moment or two of trying to kid myself, I turn my head to look at the man lying next to me.

He's no different asleep, at least not to me. Despite the relaxed demeanor, he still has that hard look about him, not in a mean way, but in a protective way. If someone asked me if I'd rather have a rocket launcher next to me, or him, in the event of enemy attack, I wouldn't hesitate in my reply. I believe in this man, in a way I haven't been able to believe in anyone, or anything, in a very long time.

But I'm a realist, too. Some might even say a fatalist. I know it can't last. Something bad is going to happen-it has to. Oh, not because we aren't careful-don't ask don't tell is definitely more than just a catchphrase to us-and not because I think he would ever willingly harm me. It's just the way it works.

Everyone I have ever loved has hurt me. Not intentionally, of course. I don't think either Sam or Scully had abductions on their list of "things to do today". Nor do I think my parents meant to freeze me out when their daughter disappeared while I was looking after her-just part of the grieving process that a steady diet of scotch and valium didn't allow them to get past. And by the time I got into the few serious adult relationships I've had, I was so spooked by the thought of letting anyone in, that I forced them away-Diana, Phoebe, Richard...

Maybe I wanted to be hurt. I think I went to the closet, found this hairshirt of abandonment, and decided it fit perfectly.

Now, I think I want to take the shirt off. But I don't know if I can, even with Walter's help, and I feel myself wanting to push him away, too. I know how crazy that sounds-I'm a psychologist who writes profiles on serial killers, believe me, I know from crazy!-but I can't help wanting it anyway.

I wonder if I should just get up now and get the hell outta Dodge, as they say. Call him, maybe, to tell him we can't do this anymore. Call him from a safe lonely phonebooth, maybe on the moon. Maybe that would be far enough...

I love this man, and I don't want to leave, but all my fight or flight responses are kicking in, the hairshirt chafing in a painful yet totally familiar way that I am loathe to give up.

Then, of course, there's the kicker-I don't know how he feels about me. He's never said he loves me, not that I expect him to, but how can I tell the players if I don't have a scorecard? Physically, he obviously likes me a whole lot, else I wouldn't feel this telltale ache in parts of my body best left unmentioned for now, but is it just sex? For once, my profiling skills are totally failing me, and I am left without a clue. Not that I've ever been a great one for understanding my own relationships. Go out and shoot up a schoolbus full of nuns and orphans, and I'll be able to tell you why you did it before you are out of the parking lot. But give me an orgasm so intense that it feels like every bone in my body has turned to Jell-O and I actually black out from the sensations for a moment, and I can't even begin to guess at the motivations.

Oh, Walter, why couldn't you just be a serial killer?

My hand is still on his arm, which still holds me close, and I stroke up to his shoulder, then gently cup the side of his face, wondering what the hell I should do, what kind of monumental mistake I'm making, and what he might be dreaming of, when his eyes suddenly open, and I'm frozen by his gaze.

Part 4: Walter

I feel him moving around beside me, but keep my eyes closed, feigning sleep for the moment to give him some privacy for his thoughts. I do reach out for him, though, putting one arm over his chest, knowing that he always craves some sort of protective action like this, especially after sex, and even more especially after one of his nightmares.

As long as we've been sharing a bed, he's been subject to night terrors. He tells me he's had them on and off, mostly on, since his sister disappeared. Apparently most of the dreams center around that-what he considers his biggest failing, I suppose. Most of the time he won't talk about it, seems almost embarrassed by the dreams, or his reaction to them, but he never pulls away from me when I go into comfort mode for him either. Of course, I have to get him to wake up before I can give him that comfort, and often, that's the real trick. I can recall one memorable occasion when his flailing arms were too quick for me, and he wound up smacking me in the face hard enough to black one eye. I don't know who was more embarrassed, him when he finally woke up, or me having to face his partner during a budget review the next day.

An errant thought about Agent Scully, and now I recall that some of his nightmares revolve around her, too. Her abduction, I assume, although he says he can never remember. He calls her name sometimes, though, with so much anguish in his voice that it almost breaks my heart to hear it.

I can't believe I just put Fox Mulder and heartbreak in the same thought. It sounds like I am a schoolgirl with a crush on the captain of the basketball team.

Just then he touches my wrist, almost hesitantly, and I suddenly wonder what he dreamed tonight that made him gasp for air and clutch at his chest like that. He sighs, and I move a little closer to him, eyes still closed, but making my presence, if not my consciousness, felt nevertheless.

My hand strays down to cup his hip, and I feel his body relax. Not a lot, but a little, which is enough for now. I imagine that he is awake, staring up at the ceiling, and thinking about his nightmare. He is a psychologist, after all, and profiling is second nature to him. He doesn't do it to me-at least not very often- for which I am dimly grateful, else he might realize-

Might realize that I am in love with him, and scared to death.

Hard to admit, but, as Fox likes to say, the truth is out there. And the truth is just this: that this surly ex-marine who makes secretaries scurry for the safety of the steno pool, who eats seasoned agents for lunch over budget requests, and who can still spar with the best of them down at Golds, is scared. Scared not of loving, for I've done that once or twice, in my way, but scared of loving too much.

Oh, yes, there have been errant thoughts of "what the hell am I doing?" I'd be lying if I didn't say there were concerns over the basic facts. He's a man. I'm his supervisor. He's notoriously unstable. I could lose my job. He could lose his sanity. We both could lose our lives. Maybe that's what makes the relationship that much sweeter, knowing it could all be gone in an instant. If we let our guards down, even for a moment...

But I have let my guard down. My personal guard. The one that says Walter Skinner will keep everyone at bay. The one that says Walter Skinner doesn't open up to anyone, anytime. The one that says Walter Skinner has to be the strong one, the capable one, the rational one. Walter Skinner would never let himself go. Never let himself fall victim to his own passions, regardless of their nature...

Well, Walter Skinner certainly did just that, and not just tonight...

Fox often initiates some form of intimacy after a nightmare. I think it's his way of getting a handle back on the real world, and not dwelling on the terrors that lurk in his subconscious. Scully says that when it happens when they're out in the field, he often crawls into her bed and just spoons up behind her, usually with a blanket between them for modesty, but he seems to crave the contact of another human being.

Normally not the sort of conversation that Agent Scully and I would be having, but since she found out about her partner and I, we've achieved some sort of relationship, based not only on respect and trust, but on our unwavering devotion to Fox Mulder.

Thinking of Scully again reminds me that I should find out if she wants us to bring red or white wine to dinner tomorrow.

My mind is almost as well trained as my body at my age, and I don't stray from my initial thoughts for long, returning to thoughts of Fox and intimacy.

I'm afraid that I may have hurt him tonight. I certainly didn't mean to. But sometimes my passion gets the better of me, and in my desire to make him mine, I sometimes-sometimes-

Sometimes I lose control. And I hate it. I hate that he makes me feel out of control. And at the same time I love it, and I love him, and I'm afraid that if he realizes that this is more than just a convenience for me after a bad marriage and a slew of bad one-night-stands, he'll leave.

I cannot give him up. Not for safety's sake, not for my job, my pension, my so-called-career. Not for nameless men who would rather see us dead. Not for his partner, although I know he loves her in his way. And most definitely not for my fears. I won't give up this incredible man simply to keep up a façade of coldness that I never really wanted in the first place.

Maybe if I had felt this way about Sharon, we'd still be married.

Or maybe not.

Bottom line, I suppose is that I have to tell him. And soon. So that he understands why I do the things I do, and so that I can begin to understand why he does the things he does. And if it turns out that I was just a convenience to him, a sexual barrier against his nightmares, well, then, so be it. But I will have been honest and open, and there is some comfort in that.

I feel his hand moving up my arm, slowly and tentatively, warm fingers brushing across my bicep, then my shoulder. He pauses for a moment with his hand curled around the curve of my neck, then moves again, to cup the side of my face. I think there has never been a better moment for this, or a worse one, and I open my eyes.

Part 5: Resolution

Mulder drew his hand back when Walter opened his eyes, suddenly wary. His lover smiled easily at him, though, and he relaxed marginally.

"I thought you were sleeping," he said, sounding faintly accusatory, as though Walter had caught him at something. And maybe he had.

"And I thought you were sleeping. Guess we were both wrong." He kept his hold on Mulder tight.

"I was just thinking."

"About what?"

"Oh, you know, the usual-"

"Destiny?" Walter interrupted him. "Fate? How to throw a curveball?"

"Smart ass." Mulder's smile took the sting out of his words. "Actually, no. I was just thinking about Scully's pasta sauce, my father's alcoholism, and things like that."

"Nice. No wonder you weren't sleeping." Walter leaned forward a little and pressed his lips to Mulder's brow. "Why don't you try counting sheep. Or little green men."

"Grey, Walter. You've read my reports for years, you should remember that they're little grey men, not green."

"Now who's the smart ass?"

"You bring out the best in me, apparently." Mulder's hand wandered back up to Walter's face, brushing lightly against his bristly cheek. Walter turned his head and kissed his palm.

"I like to think so."

"What were you thinking about?" Mulder looked apprehensive, suddenly.

"You," Walter replied, blunt and honest.

"Oh."

They were both silent for a moment, then Mulder ventured a question.

"My latest 302?"

"No."

"The new tie Scully bought me with Marvin the Martian on it?"

"No."

"That thing I do with my tongue?"

Walter snorted, laughed and kissed his forehead again.

"Maybe."

"Maybe I was thinking about that, too," said Mulder.

"Oh?"

"Maybe I was thinking about a lot of things like that," he continued carefully.

"Any complaints?" The serious darkening of his eyes belied the lightness in Walter's tone, and Mulder thought, not for the first time, that he understood why Walter never gave up his glasses for contact lenses. Those chocolate brown pupils really were the mirrors to his soul, if anyone bothered to look, and the glasses kept the lookers away. He hastened to put Walter's fears to rest.

"No! Well, maybe."

"What?"

"Not a complaint, exactly. More like a request." Mulder winced inwardly, thinking it's now or never, I guess. Time to put up, or shut up-

"A request?"

"For...you know...I-um-I want..." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Let's go all the way, Walter." He tried to sound sarcastically coy, and wound up sounding a little silly, and a lot frightened.

Walter almost wanted to laugh at the prissy statement, but didn't, although his smile came back.

"Mulder, are you asking me to-to fuck you?"

"Yes! No. I mean-"

"Easy, Mulder." Walter caught his hands, which were now turning and twisting together, and entwined their fingers, pulling him close when he tried to pull away. He kissed their knotted hands and said, "Just tell me what you want. You know you can."

"I want you to-to make love to me."

Mulder's voice caught in his throat, but he forced the words out past lips suddenly numb with something akin to terror. He winced again, this time physically, and closed his eyes, thinking if he laughs at me, I will kill myself...

Walter wasn't laughing.

He looked long and hard into that pale, terrified face, tightening his grip on Mulder's hands.

"You want me to make..." His words trailed off into a mostly uncomfortable silence. Then he formed the final word, and, for good or for ill, spoke it aloud, "love?"

"Love," Mulder confirmed, opening his eyes.

It was as close as they could come to putting their feelings into words. It was still too new for both of them, too threatening to their controlled sense of being. But, even as the single word passed from both their mouths, they each made silent resolutions regarding the situation.

Mulder swore to himself that he wouldn't run this time, that he'd allow this man into his life, and accept the risks that came with the relationship. He wouldn't reject Walter just to punish himself.

Walter resolved to give Fox Mulder all the free rein he needed, and to not try to chain him, hobble him, stake a claim of ownership on him, just to prove that he could. Then he thought briefly about what Mulder had just asked of him, and he said a quick and silent prayer to whatever higher power was the patron saint of middle aged bureaucrats and their special agent boyfriends, asking to be allowed to make this most intimate of acts as good for Mulder as he knew it could be And to not let him hurt the younger man in any way.

"What?" Mulder almost flinched and Walter realized he had almost spoken the last thought aloud.

"I won't hurt you, Fox. I promise," he said.

"I know, Walter. I trust you."

Saying it made it so. Walter saw the truth shining in Mulder's eyes, and he smiled.

"Fox, you are going to love this!"

All tension seemed to vanish from the room, leaving them both almost giddy with relief, and they spent long moments just kissing and holding one another, stoking the flames of arousal without any sense of urgency. Limbs entwined lazily, mouths roamed over warm skin with abandon, tasting every bit of flesh that was within easy reach, occasionally pausing and repeating caresses that were met with small moans and murmurs of approval.

Mulder wrapped his arms around Walter's shoulders and pulled him closer, nestling his head on the older man's chest, his mouth unerringly finding a nipple to suck and lick.

Walter groaned and plunged his hands into Mulder's soft hair, holding him firmly in place while he thrust his hips forward, meeting hard arousal and matching it with his own.

Mulder made some small sound that sent a shiver through Walter's whole body.

Walter let go of his lover's head and ran his large hands down Mulder's back to his hips, scoring his short nails lightly over tender flesh, then grasped him firmly and dragged him up and away from his chest so that he could reclaim his lush mouth with his own, kissing him deeply and thoroughly. He let his hands rest briefly on his lover's lower back, then reached lower with one hand to stroke the cleft of his buttocks and swallowed the ensuing cry of pleasure, tasting the vibrations on his tongue.

Mulder gasped as he felt one of Walter's fingers lightly circling his opening, and he thrust his hips back with another inarticulate sound, wordlessly seeking more. He pressed his erection against Walter's with a new sense of urgency, which grew even more intense as Walter slipped one, then two fingers inside him.

"Oh...Oh...Oh, god, Walter-"

"Steady, Mulder, I'm here." Walter licked and kissed his lover's face, now salty with perspiration, and twisted the hand probing him in a way that he knew from past experience would create greater pleasure for the younger man.

Mulder was reduced to whimpers and cries as Walter continued to stroke him. He rocked his body back and forth, meeting hard flesh to and fro and reveling in it. At last, the stimulation was too much, and he cried out his release, still clinging desperately to his lover.

Walter pulled away from him.

"Wha-?" Still reeling from his intense orgasm, Mulder tried to pull Walter back into his arms, but the older man pushed him onto his stomach instead, saying, "Trust me, Mulder, we're not done yet. I just wanted you to be relaxed."

"I think you got what you wanted." His tone was soft, but not sleepy.

"Not yet," Walter grinned and slipped a pillow under the younger man's hips.

Reacting automatically, Mulder spread his legs enough for Walter to kneel between them. He leaned forward, and Mulder turned his head. Walter placed an almost delicate kiss on his cheek, still damp with sweat, then attacked his earlobe with the same soft but deliberate caress of his mouth. He saw a tic appear in Mulder's cheek, heard his breath quicken, and slipped his tongue out to lave gently at his ear, his neck, then around to his back.

"Mmmm..."

"I'm to assume that means you don't mind this," Walter teased. He nibbled and kissed across shoulders, then pressed his lips to the depression between spine and skull and suckled for a moment, letting his hands glide up and down Mulder's back, moving lower as his mouth burned a fiery trail of kisses down his spine.

Mulder repeated the sound, then added a few more incoherent moans as Walter moved away from him.

"Hey-"

"No, fear, Mulder, just getting prepared."

"Oh." Mulder took a moment to realize exactly what he was committing too, took another moment to be a little worried about it, then chucked all rational thought as he felt Walter's fingers entering him again, this time slick with lubricant.

"Oh, yes, Walter, yes, please..."

"Since you asked so nicely." He let his fingers glide in and out a little faster, reaching around to pull Mulder's hips up a little and cushion him with his other hand.

Mulder thrust back onto Walter's hand, wordlessly begging for more, feeling more complete than he had ever felt in his life, then feeling equally as bereft when his lover pulled away. He heard the ripping sound and turned to watch Walter sheath and lubricate himself, and felt a new jolt of desire, knowing that the care that the older man was taking was for him. He swallowed a lump in his throat, then gasped as Walter drew him up carefully by the hips and positioned himself so he was pressing lightly just outside his body.

"Take a deep breath for me, Fox," Walter's whisper held all the weight of the loudest command. "And let it out slowly." He did as he was told. "Again." On the exhale, he felt the first hint of pain as the muscle was breached, and he tensed and caught his breath. Walter reached under him and fondled him and he was distracted and he sighed and Walter moved forward a little.

Slowly, so slowly, Walter continued his advances until he was fully sheathed inside the younger man's body, and he willed himself to hold on, to not think about how good Mulder's hot tight body felt holding his, not to give in to the desire to thrust mindlessly into that heat. He held his position and continued stroking his lover's abdomen, thighs, cock and balls, letting him have time to adjust, to accept...he could feel the younger man's breathing growing more laboured with each moment, almost panting.

"Oh, Walter. Yes. Please. Now..." Mulder abruptly thrust back, but Walter held him steady a moment more, leaning over him to whisper into his ear.

"You tell me if you want me to stop. I won't hurt you, Fox."

"You can't stop if you don't start, Walter," Mulder gasped through gritted teeth. "Just-just-oh!"

He cried out as Walter pulled back, then pushed forward, still slow and careful. The next thrust was not so slow. The third not so careful, and this one was accompanied by a slight shift in direction that made Mulder shiver.

"Oh, yes!" he cried again, and in that moment, Walter felt his reserve letting go, his physical arousal augmented by the emotional fulfillment he was receiving from Mulder's affirmations. He moved faster, gliding in and out of his lover's body with abandon, while Mulder met him thrust for thrust, still making those wonderful affirmative noises. Walter pushed hard, trapping Mulder's erection between his belly and the bed, and he felt the first tightening of the muscles which heralded the approach of orgasm as a sweet clenching sensation on his own penis, and he came with a shout, driving himself fully into his lover and shuddering with sensation.

As he felt the first pulse of the older man's orgasm deep within his own body, Mulder cried out and came himself amidst much groaning, bucking and clutching of bed sheets.

Walter had caught himself with his arms, but just barely, and now, as the stars receded and he came back to himself a little, he realized he was practically crushing his partner. But when he went to move away, Mulder reached back to hold him firmly in place.

"Don't. Just stay there. Just a moment. Please?" His tone was strained and his breathing still ragged. Walter voiced his concern.

"Fox, Christ! Are you okay? I mean-"

Mulder turned to smile at him.

"Just shut up, Walter. Can't you see I'm basking in post-coital bliss here?"

Walter laughed and said, "I guess I should say you're welcome." Then, suddenly serious, he kissed Mulder tenderly on one shoulder and added. "You bask, I'll clean up. You're sure-"

"If you ask me if I'm okay again, I'll have to shoot you, you know."

Walter smiled, then slowly pulled out of his lover, tore off the condom, knotted it and threw it in the trash. He pulled the pillow away from Mulder's body, threw it to the floor, then, suddenly too exhausted to do more, collapsed back onto the bed with a deep sigh and pulled Mulder into the crook of his arm.

"I think I-" he paused, and in that moment, Mulder opened his eyes to look directly into his face. He saw exactly what he was feeling reflected in eyes of deepest, darkest brown, and he covered Walter's mouth with his hand.

"Me too." He let his eyes slip closed, knowing that there would be no nightmares. Not tonight, maybe not for a long time...

 

Copyright 2000 Michele. All rights reserved. I went to law school.

  
Archived: April 02, 2001 


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